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JOURNEYS   THROUGH    FRANCE 


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NEW    YORK. 


JOURNEYS 
THROUGH     FRANCE 

BEING 

IMPRESSIONS  OF  THE  PROVINCES 


BY 

H.    A.  TAINE,    D.C.L 


Wttb  Seven  f  lluetrattona 


NEW   YORK 

HENRY   HOLT   AND   COMPANY 
1897 


3 


CONTENTS. 


PART  I. 

DOUAI i 

LE  MANS 14 

LA  FL$;CHE 20 

SOLESMES 26 

FROM  LE  MANS  TO  RENNES 33 

RENNES 35 

THE  MUSEUM  AT  RENNES 40 

FROM  RENNES  TO  LE  MANS  AND  TOURS 54 

BORDEAUX 60 

FROM  BORDEAUX  TO  TOULOUSE 66 

TOULOUSE 68 

STROLLS  IN  TOULOUSE 69 

FROM  TOULOUSE  TO  CETTE 85 

CETTE 87 

FROM  CETTE  TO  MARSEILLES 92 

MARSEILLES 96 

FROM  MARSEILLES  TO  LYONS 107 

FROM  LYONS  TO  BESAN^ON 117 

BESAN<JON 119 

FROM  BESAN^ON  TO  STRASBOURG 127 

STRASBOURG 129 

iii 


309446 


IV  CONTENTS. 

PART  II. 

PAGE 

DOUAI 135 

AMIENS 138 

AN  EXCURSION  TO  ST.  MALO 140 

POITIERS 142 

ARCACHON 154 

TOULOUSE 162 

MONTPELLIER l66 

MARSEILLES 171 

PROVENCE 179 

BOURG  EN  BRESSE 182 

BESAN90N 186 

NANCY 189 

RHEIMS 196 

PART  III. 

DOUAI 205 

LA  FLECHE 211 

FROM  RENNES  TO  REDON 214 

VANNES 217 

FROM  AURAY  TO  CARNAC 225 

THE  CATHEDRAL  OF  NANTES 232 

FROM  NANTES  TO  ANGERS 234 

THE  PICTURE-GALLERY  AT  ANGERS 235 

TOULOUSE 238 

CARCASSONNE 247 

CETTE 252 

A  VISIT  TO  AIGUES-MORTES 255 

FROM  ARLES  TO  MARSEILLES 259 

BERRE 270 

ORANGE 276 

LYONS 280 

CROSSING  THE  JURA 283 

STRASBOURG 285 


JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE. 


DOUAI. 

August  20,  1863. — Here  are  some  of  the  impressions 
borne  in  upon  me  during  an  after-dinner  walk. 

Over  all  there  is  a  distinct  sense  of  comfort,  not 
unlike  what  one  feels  in  Flanders  and  in  England. 
Nowhere  is  one  reminded  of  the  petty  respectability 
of  the  midland  towns,  with  their  fussing  and  over- 
reaching activity. 

Before  I  left  Paris  I  had  witnessed  the  illuminations 
of  August  15,  the  crowds  in  the  squares  and  dusty 
streets,  the  white  walls,  the  eager  and  contorted 
faces,  the  sight-seers,  domestic  servants  and  working- 
men,  gathered  together  for  their  draught  of  miscalled 
pleasure,  which  cheated  them  like  a  cup  of  adulterated 
cocoa.  I  had  absorbed  the  all-pervading  odour,  the 
dust  and  steam  of  life,  the  inferno  of  feverish  hurry, 
the  plague  of  unsatisfied  cupidity.  But  here  I  found 
less  heat ;  and  on  the  following  day  there  was  rain. 
The  brick-built,  steep-roofed  houses,  in  the  style  of 

A 


2  JOURNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

Louis  XIII.,  have  solid  and  lofty  chimneys,  and 
vaulted  windows  with  leaden  lattice  and  small  panes 
of  glass.  Nothing  was  casual,  nothing  for  mere  show, 
but  all  for  lasting  enjoyment. 

There  were  a  few  people  walking  in  the  streets  ; 
a  hum  of  life  was  just  audible  ;  here  and  there  I 
saw  a  tradesman  in  his  shop,  or  a  woman  reading 
or  gazing  about  her,  dressed  in  her  Sunday  frock. 
She  was  quite  content  to  adorn  herself  and  rest. 
Everything  was  clean,  and  there  were  frequent  signs 
of  good  taste;  everywhere  space  and  elbow-room, 
and  no  hint  of  over-crowding.  Many  houses  have 
something  to  attract  you  in  their  fronts  or  in  their 
roofs,  such  as  you  never  see  in  the  regulated  mono- 
tony of  the  Rue  de  Rivoli.  These  folk  may  be 
half  asleep,  but  they  are  "warm,"  and  their  great- 
grandfathers were  artists.  The  Scarpe  meanders 
through  the  town,  and  creates  many  a  miniature 
Venice.  There  were  ducks  paddling  about  at  their 
ease;  an  old  lady  was  watching  them  from  her 
window,  as  she  sat  amongst  her  flowers.  It  was  a 
Sunday  evening  picture. 

These  high  rooms  and  venerable  houses  present 
much  that  is  picturesque.  Some  are  reached  by 
steps  from  the  water  below;  some  rise  sheer  from 
the  canal,  which  winds  about  them  in  curious  sort, 
reflecting  their  bright  red  tiles ;  now  and  then  they 


DOUAI  3 

are  severed  by  a  fringe  of  garden,  and  we  are 
refreshed  by  the  sight  of  a  tree. 

Next  day,  as  I  said,  there  was  rain,  and  at  once 
we  had  the  familiar  north-country  landscape,  with 
its  wan  or  dissolving  mists,  snow-white  or  black  as 
soot,  rolling  over  the  red  roofs  and  the  masses  of 
green  foliage.  As  soon  as  the  rain  has  ceased,  the 
indented  roof  cuts  clear  into  the  lightened  air,  and 
the  eye  is  gladdened  by  the  honest  hues  of  bright 
uncompromising  red.  Seen  from  the  ramparts,  a 
score  of  subjects  for  Flemish  pictures  meet  the  eye. 
Every  house  has  a  tongue ;  whereas  in  Paris  you 
have  but  business  streets,  ornamental  facades,  and 
lodging-houses. 

What  pleased  me  most  was  the  Scarpe,  as  it  passed 
through  the  town  like  a  broad  canal.  Fresh  water 
always  puts  new  life  into  me,  especially  when  it  flows 
full  between  its  banks,  and  is  green,  and  ripples  with 
little  waves.  The  glazed  walls,  the  pretty  painted 
houses,  capriciously  and  irregularly  built,  glimmer  in 
the  water,  and  put  on  a  new  charm  of  brightness  and 
gaiety.  Very  welcome  to  me,  fresh  from  the  dust  of 
Paris,  was  this  long  clean  road,  beside  the  wholesome 
stream,  with  scarcely  a  soul  passing  by,  and  in  all 
but  complete  silence. 

Still  more  to  my  mind  is  the  Scarpe  outside  the 
town.  Tufted  reeds,  the  most  luxuriant  I  have  ever 


4  JOUKNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

seen,  crowd  and  jostle  each  other  in  the  ditches 
beneath  the  ramparts  ;  the  quiet  river  curves  in  and 
out,  with  long  dark  sweeps  between  the  double  row 
of  poplars,  under  the  big  peaceful  boats.  The  river 
has  been  turned  into  a  canal,  and  its  tranquillity  earned 
for  it  that  distinction.  As  I  went  indoors  the  setting 
sun  displayed  its  beauty,  and  a  pink  flush  spread 
itself  with  exultant  joy  over  all  the  shadowed  green. 

Douai  is  an  old  Catholic  city,  once  the  seat  of  a 
Parliament  and  a  University;  they  used  to  call  it 
the  Athens  of  the  North.  More  than  one  wealthy 
magistrate,  living  on  his  estate  in  arrogance  and 
ease,  invite  you  to  excellently-appointed  dinners. 
Ten  or  a  dozen  families  give  balls  every  winter. 
There  is  no  mean  economy ;  many  keep  their 
carriage,  own  land,  and  live  in  settled  comfort.  The 
younger  folk  attend  classes  and  lectures.  I  heard  of 
one  professor  who  lectured  to  two  or  three  hundred 
in  the  winter  months,  and  to  a  hundred  in  summer. 

Here  I  came  across  several  of  my  old  friends,  X. 
amongst  the  number.  He  occupied  a  house  to 
himself,  with  a  garden,  a  gate  opening  on  the  river, 
and  out-buildings,  at  a  rent  of  twelve  hundred  francs. 
His  wife  came  from  Bordeaux,  and  they  married  for 
love.  She  had  begun  to  lose  her  health,  but  recovered 
it  twice  as  quickly  as  she  might  have  done  when  she 
obtained  permission  to  marry  as  soon  as  she  was 


DOUA1  5 

well.  She  received  me  in  a  coloured  apron,  having 
come  straight  from  the  kitchen.  She  had  all  the 
southern  volubility. 

"  I  live  my  life  indoors.  My  husband  scolds  me 
for  it,  but  I  tell  him  that  he  likes  his  food  well  cooked. 
He  wants  me  to  go  into  society,  but  I  have  been 
nowhere  for  three  years.  It  fatigues  me ;  and  there 
is  so  much  to  do  in  a  house  with  two  children  ! " 

She  was  in  great  trouble  when  they  first  arrived  ; 
the  rooms  are  high,  the  curtains  were  too  short,  and 
they  had  to  be  made  all  over  again. 

"  Oh,  he  shall  not  go  to  Paris ;  I  put  down  my  foot 
against  that.  We  should  be  too  uncomfortable  there  ; 
we  are  going  to  stay  where  we  are." 

There  are  many  housewives  of  this  kind  in  the 
provinces.  At  table  they  have  not  the  nerve  to  say 
much,  and  are  ill  at  ease  ;  they  do  not  go  into  society, 
because  it  makes  them  uncomfortable.  One  of  them 
I  knew  who  had  an  income  of  six  thousand  francs, 
and  three  children  ;  she  looked  after  them  with  a 
single  nurse,  and  spent  part  of  the  day  in  the  kitchen. 
My  friends  tell  me  that  they  are  all  exceedingly 
domestic,  except  one  or  two  who  lay  themselves  out 
to  be  fashionable,  like  Parisian  ladies.  A  country 
wife  often  finds  her  sole  employment,  and  the  sufficient 
exercise  of  her  faculties,  in  needlework,  darning,  and 
the  management  of  her  household. 


6  JOURNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

Living  is  cheap,  and  does  not  overtax  the  energies. 
With  six  thousand  francs  a  family  can  be  very 
comfortable.  With  twice  as  much,  one  may  keep  a 
horse  and  a  small  carriage ;  many  people  retire  on 
two  or  three  thousand  francs  a  year. 

The  official  class  are  conventional  and  anxious  to 
please ;  the  chief  officials,  who  always  wear  a  white 
tie,  and  are  constantly  bowing  and  smiling,  pour 
forth  a  perpetual  mechanical  stream  of  compliments ; 
they  delight  in  soothing  historical  lectures,  to  which 
parents  are  wont  to  take  their  daughters.  It  is  a 
finishing  course  of  education :  the  lecturer  knows 
how  to  trip  lightly  over  the  muddy  patches.  Mons. 
B.,  who  lectures  in  philosophy,  has  an  audience  of 
barely  twenty,  and  he  has  been  reprimanded  by  his 
superiors  for  saying  that  the  Stoics  had  a  fine  system 
of  morality. 

There  are  no  serious  students  or  workers.  The 
well-to-do  folk  come  to  these  public  lectures  by  force 
of  habit,  by  way  of  passing  an  hour.  The  audience 
includes  magistrates,  officers,  and  retired  functionaries. 
The  Faculty  is  a  literary  restaurant,  a  kind  of  in- 
tellectual Petite  Provence,  whither  you  may  come 
when  the  fire  of  life  is  gently  cooling  on  its  ashes. 

The  College  is  large  and  fine,  spacious,  healthy  and 
well  arranged,  sheltered  by  trees,  and  with  broad 
courts ;  but  the  students  always  present  that  poor 


DOUAI  7 

and  shamefaced  appearance  which  is  produced  by 
the  constrained  life  of  the  cloister.  I  also  visited  the 
English  College,  which  sent  Catholic  missionaries 
and  martyrs  to  England.  It  is  enormous,  like  the 
other,  but  its  students'  rooms  are  on  a  paltry  scale, 
reminding  me  of  the  old  and  dirty  desks  at  which  we 
used  to  sit.  It  was  the  same  with  the  dormitories. 
There  is  a  new  chapel  ;  the  ancient  fresco  and  the 
rest  of  the  interior  were  destroyed  in  1789.  A  few 
pictures  and  portraits  remain,  amongst  them  one  of 
Cardinal  Allen,  with  a  pale,  wasted  and  shrunken 
face,  and  a  fine  white  beard,  like  that  of  Richelieu- 
There  were  also  the  grave  and  honest  heads,  strong 
and  narrow,  of  martyrs  and  doctors  belonging  to  the 
sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries.  All  the  brothers 
are  English,  and  so  are  the  pupils,  with  the  exception 
of  seven  or  eight  French  boys.  There  is  a  good 
library,  in  which  I  noticed  Erasmus  and  Voltaire. 

These  great  establishments,  like  the  Abbey  of 
Senone,  suggest  to  us  the  picture  of  a  life  full  of 
dulness,  of  settled  calm  and  serenity,  the  sort  of 
life  which  overtakes  a  corporation,  a  community  of 
monks,  hard-working  men  of  all  kinds  who  pursue 
their  labour  under  calm  and  unselfish  conditions,  so 
different  from  our  ordinary  individualism  and  fever. 

Clerical  influence  is  here  very  strong,  especially 
on  the  wealthier  classes.  "What  should  we  come 


8  JOURNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

to  if  it  were  not  for  religion  ? "  they  ask.  And  in 
fact  the  clergy  are  a  vast  intellectual  police.  Their 
influence  on  the  masses  is  also  great.  The  cure 
pays  his  visit  to  his  flock  whilst  the  husband  is  at 
work. 

"  And  so,  my  good  woman,  you  want  to  see  the 
destruction  of  our  holy  religion,  and  the  ruin  of  the 
Holy  Father  himself?" 

"  Oh,  your  reverence  ! "     (Monsieur  le  Doyen.) 

"Well,  then,  why  are  you  going  to  vote  for  So- 
and-so?" 

"  Dame  !     Because  the  mayor  gave  us  the  ticket !  " 

"  It  is  a  bad  ticket." 

"  Oh,  if  it  is  a  bad  one,  please  take  it  away,  your 
reverence,  and  give  us  another.  I  am  sure  I  don't 
want  to  see  our  holy  religion  destroyed,  and  I  will 
see  that  my  husband  votes  with  your  ticket." 

And  the  husband  votes  accordingly. 

The  peasants  of  the  neighbourhood,  and  the  work- 
men, are  docile  and  sensible ;  they  keep  steadily 
at  work,  and  are  easily  managed.  Not  so  the 
Picardy  men,  who  are  apt,  if  they  fall  out  with  their 
master,  to  turn  on  him  with  a  knife.  But  these, 
though  they  are  essentially  Flemings,  talk  very  lightly 
of  the  Flemish  folk,  and  regard  themselves  as  genuine 
"  Franchais."  They  have  a  natural  bent  for  co-op- 
eration ;  they  have  their  musical  societies,  cross-bow 


DOUAI  9 

and  archery  clubs,  and  so  forth ;  and  they  have 
sufficient  perseverance  to  learn  all  these  things. 
They  are  naturally  coarse ;  they  drink  hard,  and  the 
women  are  easy  and  over-generous  in  their  moods, 
as  their  husbands  usually  have  cause  to  know  before 
marrying.  But  the  neighbours  quite  expect  that 
a  promise  to  marry  shall  be  kept,  and  that  the  first 
child  shall  be  born  in  wedlock. 

I  met  plenty  of  true  Flemish  faces  in  the  streets, 
with  large  noses,  hollow  cheeks,  prominent  jaws 
and  cheek-bones,  the  complexion  of  a  potato,  red 
hair  and  light  eyes.  One  or  two  of  the  girls  were 
as  buxom  as  any  painted  by  Rubens. 

There  are  a  few  relics  of  the  earlier  occupations 
of  the  country,  amongst  them  a  half-Flemish,  half- 
Spanish  belfry,  square-built,  with  four  little  round 
towers  clinging  to  the  corners,  and  an  extraordinary 
Chinese  cap  of  leaden  baubles  and  cupolas  stuck  on 
above,  with  a  lion  to  surmount  the  whole.  There 
is  also  a  museum  of  curiosities  collected  by  Dr 
Escalier,  who  is  by  no  means  well  off,  containing  a 
few  second-rate  Flemish  pictures  and  drawings,  a 
group  of  skaters  sufficiently  true  to  life,  and  a  fine 
study  of  a  woman's  back.  At  Ste.  Marie's  there  is 
a  "  Saintete,"  by  one  of  Heneling's  pupils,  weak 
enough  by  the  side  of  his  master ;  but  it  displays 
the  same  feeling  of  mystic  resignation.  The  town 


10  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

museum  is  a  remarkable  jumble  of  modern  affecta- 
tion, copies  and  odds  and  ends  from  various  schools, 
with  one  good  portrait  of  Van  Dyck's  time,  and  a 
few  tolerably  authentic  Flemish  pictures,  the  dis- 
persions of  a  main  stream  which  found  its  channel 
elsewhere. 

I  paid  a  visit  to  a  sugar-factory.  This  is  in  a  flat 
and  marshy  district,  so  that  it  has  been  necessary 
to  dig  canals  in  order  to  let  the  water  off.  These 
are  veritably  Low  Countries,  and  that  implies 
everything,  morally  and  physically.  There  is  no 
slope  in  the  land,  a  great  deal  of  marsh  remains, 
and  here  and  there  you  may  see,  amongst  the  fields 
of  beet-root  and  wheat,  broad  pools,  motionless  and 
glistening,  with  borders  of  rustling  tufted  reeds. 

Two  days'  rain  has  left  the  land  water-logged. 
The  soil  could  not  receive  it  all ;  the  Scarpe  has 
overflowed,  and  will  have  to  discharge  its  burden 
at  some  distance  below  the  dykes.  If  the  town 
was  gloomy  this  morning,  so  is  the  country.  The 
rain  is  excessive ;  it  streams  down  through  the 
liquid,  murky  sky  till  everything  drips  and  oozes  ; 
the  horizon  has  disappeared ;  our  feet  splash  up 
the  mud.  There  are,  withal,  intermittent  gleams 
of  delightful  sunshine,  when  the  rain  is  gilded  by 
rays  straightway  extinguished  by  the  falling  mist ; 


DOVA1  II 

the  grace  as  of  a  woman  is  displayed  by  the  sur- 
rounding verdure,  cheered  as  it  weeps. 

There  is  landscape  everywhere.  From  the 
windows  of  the  factory  and  of  the  house,  as  from 
the  carriage  at  every  turning  of  the  road,  there  is 
a  subject  ready  for  the  artist  —  the  high-pitched 
roofs  of  the  houses,  the  scattered  poplars,  the  low 
tree-lines  on  the  horizon,  the  broad  open  sky, 
studded  with  clouds,  a  group  of  barefooted  children 
climbing  about  the  trunk  of  a  fallen  tree,  a  cluster 
of  peasants  on  the  bridge.  I  suppose  it  is  because 
the  country  is  so  well  defined  in  its  character ; 
everything  stands  out  and  asserts  itself. 

The  workpeople  are  thoroughly  Flemish.  They 
smoke  over  their  work,  and  driving  their  carts  ; 
their  pipes,  a  good  foot  in  length,  hang  from  their 
mouths  as  they  fill  up  their  sacks.  Half  an-hour 
every  day  has  to  be  allowed  them  for  smoking. 
There  they  sit,  half-stripped,  in  long  rows,  puffing 
at  their  pipes  in  the  chilly  fog.  On  Sundays  they 
will  drink  as  many  as  fifteen  or  sixteen  half-pints 
of  beer,  with  a  dash  of  brandy  in  it. 

All  the  country-folk  have  enough  land  to  provide 
them  with  a  store  of  potatoes,  as  well  as  a  horse  or 
a  mule,  or  at  any  rate  a  donkey.  They  work  in 
the  factory  from  September  to  January ;  even  the 
well-to-do  peasants  take  their  share  /in  this  work. 


12  JOURNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

They  are  punctual,  easily  managed,  handy  with  the 
machinery.  A  machine  is  best  handled  by  your 
north-country  workman,  not  by  the  haphazard 
plunger  of  the  south. 

It  is  a  hard  life  for  the  intelligent  young  manager, 
whom  I  found  a  good  fellow,  with  plenty  of  deter- 
mination. All  day  long  he  is  busy  over  his  vats 
of  molasses,  or  driving  bargains,  with  no  company 
but  that  of  his  workmen,  the  colour  of  a  turnip, 
tramping  barefoot  amidst  the  machinery,  and  shut 
up  in  the  evenings  within  the  four  walls  of  his 
brick-built  house,  or  in  his  little  garden  of  some 
half-dozen  paces  from  hedge  to  hedge.  There  is 
nothing  for  it  in  that  country  but  to  marry  and  beget 
children. 

There  are  no  refined  enjoyments  for  the  younger 
members  of  good  families.  They  betake  themselves 
to  the  place  to  which  Cato  the  Elder  used  to  send 
the  youth  of  Rome.  When  they  are  fairly  grown 
up,  their  fathers  grow  tired  of  seeing  them  about 
the  house,  and  get  them  married  :  a  rich  and  well- 
connected  girl  is  produced,  and  the  young  man 
suffers  himself  to  be  disposed  of.  They  are  fairly 
steady.  At  the  clubs  —  and  that  is  the  worst  of 
them — young  fellows  take  too  much.  It  is  natural 
to  the  North  German,  the  Fleming,  and  the  English- 
man. One  of  my  friends  said  to  me :  "  In  Paris,  as 


DOUAI  13 

soon  as  work  is  over,  the  first  thing  we  think  about 
is  how  we  are  going  to  amuse  ourselves.  You 
will  only  find  that  in  Paris."  He  is  right.  In 
Belgium  they  marry,  and  have  a  family ;  then  comes 
the  second  establishment,  and  so  on,  from  bad  to 
worse.  When  the  Englishman  has  ceased  to  work, 
he  eats  and  drinks,  turns  red  in  the  face,  becomes 
gloomy  or  quarrelsome,  takes  his  pleasures  brutally, 
swears  and  fights.  After  that  he  sleeps  till  he  is 
sober,  and  in  the  morning  he  washes  his  face  in 
hot  water  and  his  body  in  cold  water,  brushes  up 
his  whiskers,  and  goes  about  his  business  with  a 
funereal  aspect.  I  think  it  is  only  the  Frenchman, 
the  Latin,  the  Southerner,  who  combines  art,  poetry 
or  refinement  with  his  pleasure.  The  other  is  either 
a  mere  brute  or  merely  virtuous. 


LE    MANS. 

RETURNING  from  Douai,  one  sees  on  the  horizon, 
in  the  direction  of  Arras,  a  fine-looking  tower, 
probably  that  of  the  town  hall.  In  all  these 
Flemish  towns,  as  at  Bruges  and  Brussels,  I  know 
that  there  are  masterpieces  of  metal  work  in  the 
public  buildings.  Even  the  glasses  they  drink 
out  of  are  masterpieces.  They  are  artists  by 
their  sense  of  form  and  colour,  as  well  as  by 
their  music. 

After  Amiens  there  is  a  long,  uninviting  stretch 
of  Picardy,  grey  and  bare.  The  harvest  is  over, 
and  there  is  no  tree,  no  water,  nothing  but  chalky 
patches.  Presently  we  get  back  to  the  climate 
and  soil  familiar  to  the  Parisian,  a  wonderful  con- 
trast. I  found  them  near  Beauce,  on  the  morning 
after  I  had  left  Douai.  There  is  something  refined 
and  charming  in  the  scenery ;  nothing  especially 
striking,  but  nooks  of  verdure,  lovely  streams, 
a  pleasant  diversity  of  cultivation,  and  picturesque 
villages. 
14 


LE  MANS. 
THE   HOUSE  OF   QUEEN   BERENGERE. 


LE  MANS  15 

Near  Le  Mans,  shortly  before  you  come  to  it, 
there  is  a  great  change.  Here  the  pastoral  country 
begins ;  the  meadows,  as  in .  Normandy,  are  sur- 
rounded by  quickset  hedges,  with  many  large  trees. 
Thus  every  meadow  is  well  marked  out.  The  wind- 
ing roads  are  lined  with  thickets,  and  are  lower 
than  the  fields,  for  the  winter  rains  scour  them 
out.  These  walls  of  green  are  delightful  in  the 
bright  sunlight.  After  Flanders,  it  inspires  you 
with  new  life. 

Le  Mans  is  decidedly  ugly.  There  is  the  same 
contrast  between  the  country  and  its  inhabitants 
which  I  have  noticed  in  all  the  midland  districts. 
One  is  charmed  by  a  few  relics  of  other  days,  such 
as  an  avenue  of  venerable  trees,  an  occasional  thick 
belt  of  hornbeam  by  the  roadside  full  of  murmuring 
life,  a  church  with  a  couple  of  tiled  belfries,  grave 
and  simple  as  a  nun.  But  everywhere  there  is 
neglect,  incongruity,  an  absence  of  anything  like 
attention.  It  all  smacks  of  the  political  order  of 
things  which  plants  an  administration  on  a  town 
as  a  dentist  plants  a  set  of  teeth  on  a  shrunken 
gum.  The  streets  and  buildings  have  no  character. 
Plenty  of  stone  here  and  plaster  there;  villas  for 
monied  nobodies  and  retired  respectabilities,  some 
ornamental,  some  dilapidated ;  macadamised  roads, 


1 6       JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

followed  by  other  roads  laid  with  rough  cobbles ; 
a  great  unpaved  open  space,  irregular  in  shape  and 
not  even  reduced  to  a  level ;  at  one  end  a  horse 
fair,  with  a  score  of  indifferent  horses  being  put 
through  their  paces ;  in  the  middle,  two  cows  await- 
ing their  turn. 

You  are  soon  made  aware  of  the  presence  of 
energetic  and  clamorous  tradesmen,  displaying  their 
novelties  from  Paris.  In  the  window  of  a  bookshop 
hangs  the  portrait  of  Monsignor  X.,  a  round,  fresh- 
faced,  spectacled  man,  full  of  smiles,  like  a  Chinese 
jar.  That  man  has  dined,  dozed  with  his  hands 
on  his  belly,  pronounced  the  benediction  with  nicely 
disposed  ringers,  and  smiled  with  a  sanctified  air 
at  the  compliments  and  effusiveness  of  his  devotees. 
I  saw  two  or  three  ladies  coming  out  of  a  shop, 
gaily  dressed  and  wearing  pretty  little  bonnets, 
who  threw  back  their  heads  like  happy  peacocks. 
Dress  is  the  only  characteristic  of  the  national  genius 
which  I  found  developed  at  Le  Mans.  I  also  went 
through  the  market,  a  squalid  commonplace  hole, 
occupied  by  paltry  stalls,  and  by  the  countryfolk 
who  had  come  in  to  stock  them. 

How  well  one  understands,  in  the  course  of  such 
a  walk  as  this,  the  social  condition  of  France  !  How 
low  the  whole  nation  stands,  how  little  raised  above 
the  serfs  and  burgesses  of  the  Middle  Age,  with  an 


LE  MANS  17 

official  class  taking  the  place  of  the  old  nobility! 
This  superior  official  class  provides  the  rest,  without 
so  much  as  being  asked,  with  markets,  colleges,  law- 
courts,  and  all  kinds  of  grandmotherly  intervention. 
In  a  word,  the  masses  have  what  they  want — the 
petty  life  of  their  towns,  and  the  means  of  selling 
their  corn  and  their  produce  as  they  think  proper. 

I  have  been  thinking  of  all  this  whilst  following 
my  new  calling,  and,  to  be  brief,  if  you  exclude  the 
natural  roguery  and  rank  dishonesty  of  men  in  high 
places,  take  no  account  of  the  Rastignacs,  and  regard 
the  matter  as  a  whole,  this  country  has  reached  a 
high  level  of  justice  and  prosperity.  We  practise 
equality;  no  favours  are  shown,  even  towards  the 
noble  and  the  rich ;  justice  is  independent,  without 
respect  of  persons.  The  most  conspicuous  feature, 
which  has  produced  at  once  the  greatest  amount  of 
good  and  evil,  is  thisj  The  modern  builders  of 
France  seem  to  have  argued  that  there  are  a  certain 
number  of  things  which  are  worth  having,  and  that 
everyone  must  have  his  share — no  one  too  large  a 
share,  but  almost  everyone  a  small  or  a  middling- 
sized  share.  Generals  of  division,  bishops,  principals, 
rectors,  directors  and  the  like,  figure  at  about  fifteen 
thousand  francs.  Small  places,  varying  from  twelve 
hundred  to  three  thousand  francs,  abound.  Every 
income  rises  a  trifle  after  three  or  six  years ;  you 


1 8  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

are  to  have  a  rise  of  a  hundred,  five  hundred,  francs, 
a  first  or  second  step  in  the  Legion  of  Honour.  Even 
in  their  old  age  the  masses  are  looked  after,  in  asylums 
or  by  widows'  pensions.  There  is  a  gradual  move 
up  so  long  as  one  lives ;  everybody  can  tell  more 
or  less  certainly  how  he  will  stand  in  twenty  years ; 
great  and  flagrant  injustice  is  all  but  impossible. 
There  is  abundance  of  petty  trouble,  discontent, 
envy,  expectation,  spending  and  saving,  but  no  over- 
whelming despair.  It  is  an  ordered  existence  ;  every- 
one pinches  himself,  and  grumbles,  and  waits  for  his 
rise. 

The  professor  of  applied  mathematics  in  this  town 
has  an  income  of  four  thousand  francs.  He  began  on 
eighteen  hundred,  giving  eight  lectures  a  week,  and  in 
ten  years  he  rose  to  his  four  thousand.  He  consoles 
himself  with  the  honour  of  the  position  ;  he  is  a  unit 
in  the  system ;  he  is  unwilling  to  sacrifice  his  past, 
and  lives  in  hope  of  some  small  promotion.  There 
are  peevish  individuals  here  and  there,  or  men  who 
think  themselves  ill-used,  like  the  lieutenant  who 
teaches  swimming,  fencing  and  gymnastics  ;  but  they 
cannot  expect  to  shatter  the  enormous  machine  which 
is  but  France  herself.  In  short,  you  must  have  your 
prepossession  in  statecraft,  as  well  as  in  art.  This  is 
one  of  the  desirable  things  in  life,  even  if  it  be  only 
half  desirable :  to  suppress  the  lives  of  the  great,  the 


LE  MANS  19 

vested  interests,  and  every  kind  of  heredity  and  aris- 
tocracy;  to  share  and  share  alike;  to  manufacture  a 
vast  amount  of  medium  culture  and  medium  pros- 
perity ;  to  create  fifteen  or  twenty  millions  of  people 
who  are  tolerably  happy,  to  protect  them,  to  restrain 
them,  to  bring  them  under  discipline,  and,  if  necessary, 
to  hurl  them  at  an  enemy. 


LA   FLECHE. 

AFTER  leaving  Le  Mans  the  country  is  delightful.  I 
came  from  Noyen  to  La  Fleche  on  the  outside  of  the 
diligence,  through  clustering  verdure  of  many  different 
kinds,  under  wide-spreading  trees,  in  the  stillness  and 
calm  of  evening.  The  Touraine  landscapes  begin  at 
this  point  on  the  Loir,  with  their  voluptuous  glamour, 
with  the  warm,  caressing  climate  which  the  Valois 
princes  used  to  love,  with  the  peaceful  rivers  gliding 
gently  over  their  sands,  lying  broad  from  bank  to 
bank  and  slumbering  between  grassy  slopes — all  but 
the  eddies  and  rapids  of  the  back  water.  The  river 
widens  out  towards  the  bridge,  close  to  a  high  mill 
which  presents  the  appearance  of  a  tower,  and 
glistens  like  a  sheet  of  ice  under  the  placid  sun. 
Straight  in  front  of  me,  on  the  wide,  green,  level  plain, 
the  light  foliage  quivers,  and  the  poplars  rustle  their 
few  remaining  leaves.  The  azure  sky  is  flushed 
with  brightness ;  the  air  is  flecked  with  diamonds 
between  the  slender  branches ;  the  verdure  clothes 


LA   FLECHE  21 

itself  in  softer  tints,  for,  though  nourished  by  the 
stream,  the  sun  has  touched  it  into  brown  or  gold. 
The  eyes  are  at  rest  amid  this  deeper  colouring  ;  there 
comes  a  sense  of  joy  as  they  sweep  the  radiant  surface 
of  the  water,  and  life  once  more  seems  gracious  and 
kind. 

At  La  Fleche  the  landscape  in  itself  is  of  a  Flemish 
type,  though  the  sky  differs.  There  is  in  both  cases 
the  river  meandering  across  a  low-lying  level  plain, 
and  dotted  with  islands  ;  the  same  meadow-land,  the 
same  hedges  with  their  occasional  poplars ;  and  in 
both  the  floods  are  out  in  the  winter.  But  the  sun 
changes  everything.  Under  its  rays  all  is  calm  and 
joyous  allurement.  The  clear  water  heaves  in  answer 
to  the  sky,  and  ripples  in  a  lattice-work  of  wonderful 
azure — bright,  luminous  blue,  framed  in  tender  green, 
with  cloudlets  of  swansdown  above.  The  streams  of 
a  level  country  run  continuous  with  the  land,  making 
no  banks  to  speak  of.  The  sky  fills  a  wide  vault  of 
heaven,  and  it  seems  to  me  to  possess  the  true 
southern  luminosity,  with  all  its  velvet  brilliance.  It 
makes  you  think  of  lapis  lazuli,  and  many  a  glowing 
gem. 

I  spent  part  of  two  evenings  seated  on  a  beam  of 
wood  opposite  to  the  landing-stage.  Here  the  river 
occupies  a  wide,  stone-edged  lock  basin,  with  a  little 
flood-gate  which  keeps  up  a  constant  murmur.  Two 


22  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

or  three  high  buildings  stand  in  the  middle  of  the 
basin,  and  are  used  as  tanneries. 

I  cannot  convey  an  adequate  idea  of  the  beauty, 
the  calm,  the  delightful  softness  of  the  scene  ;  that 
would  need  the  pencil  of  a  Decamps  or  a  Corot.  The 
clear  sky  shines  out  above  like  the  pearly  lining  of  a 
shell,  the  broad  sheet  of  water  reflects  its  light,  and 
the  upper  and  the  under  glow  meet  and  float  im- 
palpably  in  the  delicate  breath  of  the  mist.  This 
transparent  veil  of  air  softens  every  outline ;  the  slim 
trees  and  the  distant  poplars  seem  to  be  turned  to 
vapour.  They  might  be  happy  shades  floating  be- 
tween existence  and  extinction,  softly,  yearningly, 
as  ready  to  vanish  as  to  reappear.  There  is  no 
colour ;  the  high  buildings  throw  black  shadows  over 
the  water,  but  beyond  them  the  white  light  flows  and 
shimmers,  and  the  tiny  waves  rustle  in  their  sport  or 
sink  to  rest. 

La  Fleche  is  a  place  of  eight  or  ten  thousand  in- 
habitants. It  is  roughly  paved  with  narrow  streets, 
planned  after  the  true  type  of  a  country  town — on 
one  side  a  fine  modern  street,  on  the  other  a  poverty- 
stricken  quarter,  with  one-storey  houses  such  as  are 
common  in  England.  A  house,  large  enough  for  a 
family,  together  with  a  garden,  can  be  had  for  three 
hundred  francs  a  year. 

The  chief  ornament  of  the  town  is  the  Prytanee. 


LA  FLECHE  2$ 

There  are  four  hundred  pupils,  all  exhibitioners 
except  twenty,  with  a  general-in-command  and  his 
staff.  The  buildings  and  gardens  cover  four  hectares. 
This  is  the  old  Jesuits'  College  founded  by  Henri  IV., 
and  it  is  quite  on  a  grand  scale.  In  the  sixteenth 
century  people  demanded  more  space  for  breathing 
and  movement  than  we  do.  It  is  an  enormous  rect- 
angular building  enclosing  a  large  grass-covered  quad- 
rangle, and  to  the  right  and  left  are  many  courts  and 
accessory  buildings.  At  the  back  is  a  large  park, 
with  plantations  and  flowers,  a  green  stone  basin  and 
a  fountain,  a  wood  of  well-grown  timber,  and  great 
dykes,  like  those  which  surround  a  castle.  Stone, 
space,  trees,  were  all  lavished  on  this  establishment. 
Labour  and  land  cost  little  in  those  days.  These 
immense  courts,  those  high,  symmetrical  buildings, 
that  grand  arched  promenade,  the  church  with  its 
high  tower  and  pointed  apse,  charm  the  eye  as  you 
approach  them  from  the  town.  It  is  all  noble  and 
spacious  in  contrast  with  the  petty  bourgeois  life  that 
is  lived  amongst  the  stunted  and  crowded  rows  of 
dwelling-houses.  I  have  been  accused  of  being  an 
aristocrat ;  and  at  any  rate  I  think  it  would  be  hate- 
ful to  have  to  live  without  such  grand  and  beautiful 
possessions  as  the  Prytande. 

There  is  a  fine,  or  very  nearly  a  fine,  picture  in  the 
church,  the  subject  of  which  is  the  Maccabees.    There 


24        JOURNE  YS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

are  no  images  or  figures  in  plaster.  The  nave  is  high 
and  the  style  is  that  of  the  Jesuits,  with  garlands 
and  ribboned  consoles  ;  but  here  this  affected  style 
appears  fine  by  contrast. 

It  might  be  supposed  that  all  would  be  peace  with- 
in— as  happy  as  a  Flemish  interior.  Seen  close,  it  is 
like  a  glass  of  water  under  a  microscope,  full  of  frightful 
animalcules  devouring  each  other.  I  met  a  man  who 
came  here  when  he  was  quite  young.  He  has  bought 
a  garden  with  a  little  two-roomed  house  in  the  work- 
men's quarter,  and  he  lives  there  like  the  Fontaine- 
bleau  artists,  with  his  wife  and  child.  He  had 
rooms  in  the  Prytanee,  and  left  because  it  was  too 
much  trouble  to  keep  himself  dressed. 

"  You  meet  nothing  but  crinolines  and  new  dresses 
in  the  park." 

Self-adornment  and  the  latest  fashion  seem  to 
turn  the  heads  of  all  the  women.  Their  husbands 
have  incomes  of  eighteen  hundred  or  two  thousand 
francs ;  some  of  three  thousand  five  hundred. 
There  is  only  one  who  has  four  thousand.  They 
must  cut  down  the  beef  and  soup  to  provide  these 
ribbons.  The  heads  of  the  old  professors  are  a 
sight  to  be  seen.  But  we  must  bear  in  mind  the 
poverty  of  the  universities.  In  most  cases  these 
heads  would  be  less  peculiar  if  they  had  not 
weathered  a  storm  of  misfortunes. 


LA  FLECHE  2$ 

A  curious  feature,  conspicuous  amidst  the  general 
dulness  of  provincial  life,  is  the  dulness  of  these 
pupils  themselves.  They  are  gloomy ;  they  appear 
to  be  almost  destitute  of  feeling,  and  cannot  even 
brighten  up  at  table.  The  friend  whom  I  have 
mentioned  spoke  to  me  of  a  new  arrival  from  Paris, 
who  lost  his  head,  and  excused  himself  by  saying : 

"  I  can't  make  it  out,  but  I  don't  know  what  I  am 
doing  to-day." 

He  stood  on  his  defence,  even  whilst  he  displayed 
his  modesty  in  the  presence  of  his  companions.  For 
in  Paris  self-respect  acts  as  a  stimulus. 


SOLESMES. 

FROM  La  Fl&che  I  went  on  to  Sabl£,  and,  as  it 
was  raining,  I  took  a  private  carriage.  The  country 
looked  very  green.  I  have  always  been  struck  by 
the  appearance  of  trees  when  the  rain  is  falling ; 
they  are  so  full  of  life  and  verdure. 

From  Sable  I  proceeded  to  Solesmes,  in  order  to 
visit  the  Benedictine  Abbey.  Some  of  the  brethren 
are  learned,  like  Dom  Gueranger,  a  friend  of 
M.  Veuillot's.  My  guide  informed  me  that  he  is  at 
work  on  the  saints  of  Anjou,  and  on  the  antiquities 
of  Le  Mans.  Their  library  is  not  a  very  good  one, 
but  they  have  the  Abbe  Migne's  edition  of  the 
Fathers.  Perhaps  five  or  six  out  of  the  sixty  are 
occupied  in  work. 

It  is  a  very  attractive  building,  which  might  be 
the  mansion  of  a  man  with  thirty  thousand  pounds 
a  year.  It  stands  about  fifty  feet  above  the  bank 
of  the  Sarthe,  with  a  walled  terrace,  a  broad  walk 
sheltered  by  a  close  hedge  on  the  left,  lovely  flowers, 
vines,  Chinese  glycine  plants  creeping  over  the 

26 


SOLESMES  27 

walls,  and  a  fine  fig-tree.  There  is  every  sign  of 
good  taste,  pretty  designs  and  lawns.  On  the 
right  you  get  an  admirable  view.  The  Sarthe  winds 
and  disappears  behind  groups  of  trees,  where  the 
green  plain  is  lost  in  the  horizon.  The  monks  have 
built  a  quaint-looking  high  tower,  of  several  storeys, 
surmounted  by  battlements,  where  they  entertain 
their  guests.  I  was  told  that  they  constructed  it 
in  1848,  to  give  work  to  the  labourers.  A  short 
time  ago  they  made  room  here  for  two-and-twenty 
guests.  The  brother,  who  showed  me  round,  had 
the  manners  of  one  who  had  mixed  in  society.  He 
begged  that  I  would  do  them  the  honour  of  sharing 
their  meal.  The  fact  is  that  they  are  not  ascetic. 

He  took  me  to  the  broad  walk,  passing  under 
lime-washed  stone  arches,  and  winding  round  a 
dense  thicket.  We  met  the  Fathers  occasionally. 
Most  of  them  were  reading,  and  some  were  well- 
built  men,  but  thin  and  pale.  There  was  no  cant 
about  them.  I  had  only  one  greeting  which  gave 
me  a  shock,  and  that  was  from  a  group  of  novices 
on  the  road. 

The  refectory  is  panelled  with  dark  wood.  A 
copper  lamp  hangs  in  the  centre ;  and  through  the 
open  windows  we  looked  out  on  a  charming  land- 
scape. They  drank  cider  and  wine.  Their  taste, 
their  comfort,  and  their  studious  life,  reminded  me 


28  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

of  the  ancient  abbey  near  Senones.  Indeed,  this 
mode  of  life  is  quite  as  endurable  as  that  of  a 
soldier  or  a  sailor ;  discipline  and  custom  are  all 
that  a  man  needs.  They  imply  a  restricted  society, 
subject  to  authority,  in  a  fixed  home,  with  every 
hour  accounted  for ;  and  the  meditative  soul  has 
its  vista  which  ends  in  God. 

The  abbey  looks  very  well  as  you  approach  it, 
with  its  tall  belfry,  round  and  grey.  But  the  main 
interest  is  in  the  chapel.  It  is  a  narrow  chapel, 
built  with  a  crypt.  Entering  by  the  west  door,  I 
noticed,  first  of  all,  the  choir  with  its  blazoned 
windows  and  dark  wooden  panelling.  Several  monks 
were  in  their  stalls,  absorbed  in  reading.  There 
were  a  few  stiff  heads  in  stone,  of  the  time  of 
Louis  XL,  approximating  towards  expression. 

The  body  of  the  church  is  characterized  by  a 
grand  sculptural  effect,  right  and  left  of  the  nave- 
It  is  very  fine  and  ancient  work,  said  to  have  been 
executed  by  Italian  artists,  begun,  if  we  accept  the 
dates  on  the  mouldings,  in  1496,  and  finished  in 
1553.  The  figures  are  life-size.  On  the  right  is 
Christ  in  the  Tomb.  Mediaeval  feeling  subsists 
here  almost  without  modification.  The  ogive,  the 
little  arches  meeting  in  a  sheaf,  the  denticulation, 
the  grotesques,  a  devil,  a  jester  carved  in  the  margin 
of  the  piece,  fix  its  epoch  with  sufficient  accuracy. 


SOLESMES  29 

The  Renaissance  was  but  just  beginning;  really 
fine  work  is  still  almost  unknown.  The  figures  are 
realistic,  taken  from  the  life ;  the  artist  is  still  servile ; 
but  how  closely  he  has  observed  nature,  and  how 
well  he  knows  her  ! 

On  the  left  is  the  Entombment  of  the  Virgin. 
It  is  a  work  of  admirable  piety  and  calm.  The 
hands  are  meekly  crossed,  but  you  can  see  that  they 
partly  droop — the  body  is  not  yet  stiff.  It  is  covered 
with  a  white  shroud,  raised  at  either  end  by  one 
of  the  mourners.  There  is  the  same  idea  in  the 
opposite  group  in  regard  to  the  Christ.  The  other 
figures,  men  and  women,  whether  upright  or  stooped, 
are  disposed  round  this  focus.  The  work  is  still 
too  literal,  detailed,  and  stiff;  the  figures  look  too 
short ;  they  strike  one  as  though  they  were  crowded 
into  a  cave.  But  already  we  have  fine  heads,  full 
of  energy  and  nobility;  and  how  profoundly  tender 
is  the  heart  which  bespeaks  itself  in  the  expression 
and  pose  of  the  Virgin  ! 

There  are  three  other  subjects,  with  many  figures. 
The  whole  effect  is  monumental :  columns,  niches' 
decorative  architecture,  all  indications  of  the  Renais- 
sance. In  front  of  the  window,  the  head  of  the 
woman  who  plants  her  feet  upon  the  dragon  is 
charming.  But  what  struck  me  most  was  the  Virgin 
and  S.  Joseph,  discovering  Jesus  amongst  the  doctors. 


30  JOURNE  YS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

The  S.  Joseph  is  a  fine,  vigorous  Italian  peasant ;  the 
Virgin  is  a  pretty  but  firm-looking  girl.  It  is  an 
attractive  couple,  and  the  attitudes  are  well  caught 
and  expressed.  The  Jesus  is  too  fat,  with  puffed-out 
cheeks. 

This  sincerity  of  art  still  untaught  by  rule  and 
convention,  copying  the  truth  as  it  sees  it,  is  alto- 
gether pleasing.  These  men  discovered  everything 
for  themselves  ;  they  were  thoroughly  alive.  It  may 
have  been  a  family,  or  something  in  the  nature  of  a 
complete  school,  which  here  expressed  and  deposited 
all  that  it  thought  and  all  that  it  felt.  The  Doctors, 
robed  in  the  fashion  of  the  sixteenth  century,  are  true 
as  the  heads  of  Albert  Diirer,  but  also  finer.  They 
are  said  to  be  portraits  of  contemporary  heretics. 
One  choleric  and  sanguine  figure  might  well  be  meant 
for  Luther.  All  are  actual  types,  audaciously  copied 
and  elaborated.  This  realism  astonishes  and  shocks 
one  a  little  in  sculpture,  but  in  the  end  it  delights  one. 
I  specially  remember  the  scandalized,  half-angry  ex- 
pression of  the  first  Doctor,  a  man  of  substance  and 
energy,  who  stands  in  the  foreground  with  a  book  in 
his  hand. 

Again  there  is  a  bas-relief,  the  Massacre  of  the 
Innocents.  The  mother  concealing  her  infant  with 
her  arms  is  a  copy  from  Raphael,  but  more  massive, 
almost  brutally  massive. 


SOLES MES  3 1 

In  this  chapel  we  have  a  complete  picture  of  the 
dawn  of  Art. 

I  have  come  across  a  considerable  number  of 
peasants  and  townsfolk,  at  Le  Mans,  Noyen,  Sable, 
and  other  places.  They  only  deepen  my  impression 
that  France  is  organised  on  behalf  of  these  classes  ; 
and  it  is  a  melancholy  result. 

A  community  is  like  a  large  garden  :  it  is  planned 
for  peaches  and  oranges,  or  for  carrots  and  cabbages. 
Our  garden  is  planned  entirely  for  cabbages  and 
carrots.  The  ideal  is  that  a  peasant  may  eat  meat, 
and  that  my  shoemaker,  having  made  up  his  pile  to 
three  thousand  francs  a  year,  may  send  his  son  to  the 
Law  School.  But  men  who  distinguish  themselves 
never  rise  to  eminence.  The  utmost  that  they  get  is 
a  cross,  a  modest  competence ;  their  income  just 
prevents  them  from  starving.  Colonel  L.,  who 
entered  the  Polytechnic  at  sixteen,  and  left  it  second 
on  the  list,  has  served  forty-four  years,  and  has  a 
pension  of  four  thousand  francs.  Imagine  such  a 
case  in  England  ! 

Thus  everything  is  transient ;  you  can  build  no 
superstructure,  you  cannot  establish  your  family. 
Moreover,  it  is  all  a  matter  of  competition ;  we  are 
developing  the  system  of  the  Chinese.  We  prepare 
for  examinations,  we  pass  examinations,  and  we  fall 


32  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

into  line.  This  system  implies  a  mechanical  or  a  forced 
education,  college  life,  the  high  stool  from  morning  to 
night,  boredom,  suspense,  intrigue,  narrow  ideas,  the 
spirit  of  a  hireling. 

And  the  competition  is  necessary.  In  what  other 
way  could  we  select  our  candidates  ?  It  does  not 
follow  that  all  they  are  required  to  learn  is  indispens- 
able, or  even  useful  in  their  future  career;  but  it  is 
a  test,  and  removes  the  suspicion  of  unfairness. 
Genuine  and  disinterested  study  is  precluded.  Boys 
are  crammed  at  preparatory  schools,  and  trained  to 
become  candidates  and  bachelors.  At  the  final  history 
examination,  one  candidate  wrote  out  the  ancient  and 
modern  history  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  islands  in  the 
Mediterranean  ;  another,  twelve  pages  on  the  Council 
of  Florence,  quoting  the  Latin  witticisms  of  his 
period.  This  prodigy  of  a  candidate  was  still  no 
more  than  a  sixth-rate  man.  Such  are  the  fruits  of 
competition  :  mediocrities  and  monstrosities. 

They  have  just  set  up  a  new  competition  for 
telegraphists.  You  cannot  select  them  without  it ; 
and  there  is  plenty  of  grumbling  already ! 


FROM  LE  MANS  TO  RENNES. 

I  HAVE  seen  nothing  that  is  grand,  but  this  is  one  of 
the  most  delightful  districts  through  which  I  have 
passed. 

It  is  green  from  first  to  last.  There  is  scarcely  any 
corn,  and  only  two  or  three  fields  of  buckwheat ;  all 
the  rest  is  laid  down  in  pasture,  every  meadow  being 
surrounded  by  a  broad,  quickset  hedge,  with  many 
oak  trees.  These  oaks  are  fed  by  the  constant  rain. 
It  rains  at  Rennes  every  other  day.  As  far  as  the 
eye  can  reach  there  is  always  the  same  spectacle  of 
little  green  undulating  tracts,  with  clumps  of  oaks, 
full  of  fresh  life,  with  bright  and  lustrous  foliage 
which  gladdens  the  eye  as  a  clear  musical  sound 
gladdens  the  ear.  Now  and  then  the  soil  is  clayey, 
and  holds  the  rain.  Then  belts  of  green,  unspeakably 
brilliant,  furrow  the  meadow  with  emerald  hues,  and 
patches  of  still  water  gleam  amongst  the  reeds  and 
horsetail.  Here  and  there  a  pool,  stirred  by  the  wind, 
breaks  into  innumerable  ripples.  The  wide  sheet  of 
black  and  brown,  with  its  quiet  undulation,  is  a 


34  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

strange  and    extraordinary  picture ;    a  sea-gull  flits 
slowly  over  it,  propelled  by  its  great  hooked  wings. 

Throughout  my  journey  the  big  water-logged  clouds, 
black  as  coal,  dragged  heavily  along,  or  broke  over 
the  green  heads  of  the  oak-trees. 


RENNES. 

HERE  I  found  in  the  centre  of  the  town  fine,  wide, 
notable  streets,  well  paved,  and  with  granite-edged 
sidewalks ;  but  no  evidence  of  taste.  The  town  was 
burnt  in  the  eighteenth  century.  The  cathedral,  with 
columns  clustered  in  console  fashion,  has  nothing 
external  which  is  of  interest,  whilst  the  interior  is 
white  and  flat.  It  is  the  ugliest  building  I  have 
seen. 

In  some  parts  of  the  town,  though  not  in  the 
principal  streets  or  the  suburbs,  the  execrable,  sharp- 
pointed,  torturing  pavement  still  subsists — nothing 
more  nor  less  than  stones  of  every  size  and  shape 
rammed  down  together.  The  houses  are  wretched, 
a  mere  mediaeval  relic.  They  are  built  of  wood  and 
mortar,  tun-bellied  and  humped,  covered  with  a  sort 
of  cracked  breastplate  of  old  rough  slates,  dirty  and 
insecure.  There  is  every  imaginable  shape ;  it  is 
the  oddest  conceivable  medley.  Some  have  pointed 
fifteenth-century  caps,  some  shoot  up  into  turrets, 
others  are  short  and  squat ;  they  greet  you  with  face 

35 


36  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

or  flank,  in  any  and  every  aspect.  All  have  the 
little  guillotine  window,  with  dirty  panes  of  glass. 
As  a  shelter  against  the  rain  the  highest  houses  have 
a  sort  of  protruding  screen  made  of  slates,  resting 
on  a  couple  of  beams.  You  catch  sight  of  dark, 
worm-eaten  flights  of  steps,  of  evil  odour.  Here, 
under  rain  or  heavy  clouds,  is  ample  suggestion  for 
a  painter. 

I  found  a  few  traces  of  dull  piety  and  Catholic 
reaction,  such  as  a  monster  cross  of  bronze  on  a 
gilded  ball,  with  a  vast  granite  pedestal,  set  up  in 
1817.  I  also  heard  an  emphatic  charge  from  the 
bishop  on  the  general  degeneracy  of  character,  and  on 
the  nobility  of  the  Bretons.  These  episcopal  groans, 
which  hurl  thunder  at  modern  civilisation,  wind  up 
with  a  permission  to  eat  eggs. 

There  is  profound  faith,  intensity,  and  deep  devotion 
in  the  kneeling  crowd.  I  saw  some  women  at  con- 
fession, and  one  of  them,  who  might  have  been  a 
housekeeper,  was  telling  her  beads.  A  peasant 
woman  prostrated  herself  before  the  great  cross  in 
the  square.  The  land  is  Catholic,  not  by  routine, 
but  with  passionate  conviction.  I  went  to-day  to 
see  the  congregation  disperse  after  mass  and  vespers. 
Some  of  the  older  peasants  were  kneeling  on  the 
pavement,  with  rosaries  in  their  hands,  telling  their 
beads,  bending  forward  in  the  most  uncomfortable 


KENNES  37 

position,  and  apparently  quite  absorbed.  Their  eyes 
never  wandered ;  not  a  joint  in  their  body  stirred. 
There  were  many  women,  domestic  servants,  girls 
from  the  country,  and  one  or  two  nuns.  Their 
figures  and  faces  were  like  those  of  mediaeval  saints 
in  the  cathedral  niches.  I  saw  no  excitement  or 
eagerness;  they  were  simply  overmastered.  It  was 
the  absolute  intensity  of  their  belief,  as  though  they 
had  been  taken  to  see  the  Emperor  at  the  Tuileries, 
all  in  the  glitter  of  gold,  and  a  chamberlain  had 
bid  them  kneel  and  be  quiet.  Is  this  sort  of  religion 
anything  else  than  a  constraining  fear  ?  Have  these 
good  folk  any  idea  of  absolute  justice  ? 

Near  Thabor  there  is  a  large  chapel,  with  the 
Virgin  and  infant  Jesus  on  the  altar,  both  crowned. 
She  is  indeed  both  queen  and  goddess.  It  looks, 
at  times,  as  though  Catholicism  were  a  revival  of 
polytheism,  with  unhappy  and  tender  persons 
worshipped  in  place  of  strong  ones. 

Gradually  the  type  of  the  race  impresses  one. 
There  is  a  feature  especially  conspicuous  in  the 
peasant  women,  children,  and  young  girls  in  the 
market.  It  is  not  a  regular  beauty,  either  of  health 
or  of  fine  development,  but  a  certain  acuteness  of 
form,  a  look  of  endurance,  pallor,  suppression.  In 
many  young  girls,  however,  this  creates  an  expression 
which  compels  admiration.  It  marks  a  perfect  form 


38  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

of  virginity,  of  the  senses  and  of  the  soul,  an  exquisite 
sensibility,  a  charming  delicacy,  prone  to  suffering 
through  its  very  excess,  and  a  remarkable  gentleness. 
It  reminds  one  of  the  Indian  saying,  "  Do  not  strike 
a  woman,  even  with  a  flower."  It  is  an  inner 
beauty ;  the  soul  is  reluctant,  resigned,  frail,  infinitely 
soft. 

During  a  ride  in  the  park,  on  the  day  of  my  arrival, 
I  saw  an  engaged  couple  walking  out  with  the  parents 
of  the  devoted  swain.  The  girl  wore  a  tall  hat  with 
stiff  trimmings,  white  and  embroidered,  like  a  survival 
from  a  fifteenth-century  head-dress.  She  had  a 
brown  skirt,  a  figure  without  a  waist,  reminding 
one  of  the  thirteenth-century  statues,  a  little  violet 
shawl,  in  keeping  with  the  rest,  and  black  stockings. 
Her  face  was  rather  small,  but  the  pretty  grey  eyes 
were  full  of  candour.  It  was  not  the  simple  candour 
of  a  German  or  an  English  woman.  This  was  none  of 
your  commanding,  fresh,  high-coloured,  buxom  girls  ; 
on  the  contrary  she  was  short,  and  her  arms  and 
neck  were  too  thin.  Surely  to  such  a  type  must 
have  belonged  the  pure  heroines  of  old-world  Breton 
chivalry,  the  mystic  love  of  the  tales  that  tell  of 
the  Holy  Grail,  of  Percival,  Elaine,  Yolande,  and 
Geraint.  Renan  has  written  finely  of  this  delicate 
and  enduring  sensibility  of  the  Celtic  races. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  soldier  who  directed  me 


JRENNES  39 

to  the  barracks  assured  me  that  no  country  is  more 
easy-going. 

"  In  the  daytime  they  will  not  look  at  you,  but 
at  night  they  are  affable  enough." 

And  that  is  what  it  comes  to  in  the  Breton 
romances,  and  in  the  British  lands  generally,  in 
the  Middle  Age.  We  read  of  a  priest  with  ten 
wives,  and  others  had  still  more. 

There  were  six  tipsy  men  asleep  on  the  church 
steps.  They  had  drunk  four  litres  of  cider,  with 
brandy  to  follow.  In  all  the  outlying  quarters  of 
the  town  there  was  dirt,  bad  smells,  and  penury. 
Not  till  six  years  ago  did  they  begin  to  erect  decent 
houses.  Several  districts  reminded  me  of  the  Ghetto 
at  Frankfort.  Everything  is  dirty  here,  even  the 
hotel,  though  it  is  the  best  in  the  town,  and  very 
expensive.  It  has  a  yard  in  common  with  another 
hotel,  which  receives  and  despatches  parcels ;  there 
is  no  end  to  the  bustle,  the  beggars,  and  so  forth. 
My  own  hotel  is  an  old-fashioned  city  tavern,  with 
lofty  rooms,  old  furniture  picked  up  at  sales,  the 
paper  peeling  from  the  walls,  and  bad  smells  every- 
where. What  a  contrast  to  Douai ! 

The  Lycee  had  seven  hundred  pupils.  The  bishop 
established  a  religious  college,  and  on  one  day  half 
of  the  students  left.  Now  the  Lycee  is  in  a 
languishing  state. 


40  JOURNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 


THE   MUSEUM   AT   RENNES. 

THE  pictures  come  partly  from  a  private  collection 

of  ^the]  Marquis  de  .      They  are   the   property 

of '  the  nation,  brought  here  at  the  time  of  the 
Revolution.  The  rest  are  an  overflow  from  the 
Paris  museums.  In  1804  the  Louvre  was  more 
than  full,  and  some  of  the  canvases  were  sent  to 
the  provincial  museums. 

The  building  in  which  they  are  housed  is  the  old 
Lecture  Theatre.  There  is  a  museum  of  conchology, 
of  casts,  of  miscellaneous  pictures,  and  terra  cottas 
of  different  periods,  scattered  here  and  there.  One 
canvas  was  given  by  the  Emperor,  "  La  pauvre 
femme  deposant  son  enfant  au  tour,"  which  was 
bought  at  the  Exposition  of  1858.  Everything  is 
clean  and  new  as  an  artificial  tooth.  The  idea 
occurred  to  me  again  and  again  ;  the  barracks,  the 
court-house,  the  university,  all  without  roots  of  their 
own,  all  planted  in.  For  instance,  there  are  no 
painters  at  Rennes — only  drawing-masters  and  a 
few  amateurs.  The  notion  returns  when  you  come 
upon  a  grand  building,  recently  sprung  up,  con- 
spicuous, or  out  of  harmony  with  its  surroundings. 
Thanks  to  some  ministerial  arrangement,  funds  have 


RENNES  41 

been  voted  in  Paris ;  a  Parisian  architect  has  been 
sent  down  ;  he  has  done  his  business,  and  the  town 
is  richer  by  a  block. 

Nevertheless,  there  is  some  good  in  the  system. 
All  the  imbeciles,  peasants,  and  poor  townsfolk  have 
officials  assigned  to  them,  just  as  the  Hindoos  receive 
their  Anglo-Indian  civil  servants.  If  it  were  not  for 
that,  there  would  be  no  good  roads,  no  administration 
of  justice,  and  no  schools. 

After  my  examinations  I  went  into  the  Museum, 
and  that  cleared  my  mind.  It  is  not  a  bad  thing  to 
have  an  occupation  in  order  to  understand  what 
occupation  means,  and  thereby  to  understand  what 
the  majority  of  men  have  in  their  heads.  Only  you 
must  not  be  too  long  over  your  occupation. 

There  are  two  Wynants  and  a  few  other  Dutch 
pictures.  I  like  them  better  every  year  ;  they  have 
painted  a  normal  condition  of  things,  and  even  an 
ideal  condition — quiet,  comfort,  and  contentment. 
Nowadays,  painters  recognise  the  violent,  strange,  or 
poetic  side  of  nature,  but  their  peasants  are  no  more 
than  physiological  studies.  The  future  in  every  art  is 
for  such  as  select  or  meet  with  subjects  which  all 
succeeding  generations  will  approve.  Happiness  is 
one  of  these  themes,  but  nervous  disorder  and  psycho- 
logical peculiarities  are  not  amongst  them.  I  could 


42  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

not  perceive  the  beauty  of  happiness  until  I  was  well 
advanced  in  life.  In  the  early  days  this  did  not 
come  home  to  me,  or  I  thought  it  stale. 

Wynants  has  a  delicate  soul,  somewhat  melancholy, 
but  still  charming.  His  tints  are  soft,  or  rather 
softened.  He  has  two  gracefully  drooping  birch-trees, 
many  trees  growing  slightly  out  of  shape,  still  and 
lustrous  water,  light  foliage  taking  on  the  hues  of 
evening,  fleecy  clouds  floating  gradually  upwards, 
piling  grey  on  satin  folds,  tawny  stretches  of  soil,  pale 
distances  melting  hue  in  hue,  a  damp  coolness  spread- 
ing through  the  air,  a  languid  peace  stealing  over  and 
enfolding  everything  with  a  caress. 

In  judging  a  landscape,  the  whole  question  is  one 
of  more  or  less  moisture  in  the  air.  My  temperament 
needs  more  than  a  Roman  or  a  Greek  would  demand. 
After  a  brief  time,  face  to  face  with  a  southern 
literature  or  art,  my  sensibility  is  wounded,  and  I 
require  an  imperceptible  humidity  in  the  atmosphere 
to  allay  the  scorching  heat  of  their  sun. 

A  Horse-fair  of  Wouvermans.  The  spacious  reach 
of  sky  and  air  is  filled  with  a  fine  mist,  pervaded  by 
sunshine  ;  the  splendid  horses,  covered  with  brown  or 
white  horsecloths,  throw  up  their  heads,  or  display 
their  glossy,  well-nourished  limbs.  All  the  buyers 
are  dressed  in  velvet  or  bright  yellow  silk,  with  satin 
ribbons,  bands  and  rosettes,  and  large  top-boots. 


RENNES  43 

They  are  magnificently  handsome  in  their  wide- 
brimmed  hats,  swords,  wigs  and  lace  sleeves,  though  a 
trifle  heavy  in  appearance.  The  ladies  are  stiff- 
looking  in  their  white  satin  skirts.  But  it  is  still  un~ 
mistakably  a  last  scene  in  the  knightly,  aristocratic 
life  described  in  the  "  Memoirs  "  of  Bostaquet.  What 
a  parade  it  was !  How  happy  they  were  in  that 
emancipation  from  ideas  and  refinement !  It  is  easy 
to  be  seen,  in  Dumont  de  Bostaquet,  that  feasting 
and  parade,  hunting  and  pornp  and  circumstance, 
sufficed  for  happiness. 

A  Vierge  au  chardonneret,  by  Van  Herp,  one  of  the 
pupils  of  Rubens.  This  is  a  charming  girl,  some- 
what affected  in  style,  with  long  tapering  fingers  ;  but 
it  is  an  essentially  good  picture.  There  is  such  an 
effusion  of  love  in  the  soft,  deep  tones  of  the  hair  and 
shoulders.  The  child,  round  and  pink  as  a  flower, 
has  lips  like  cherries,  and  no  thought  but  for  the 
breast.  He  has  the  serious  look  peculiar  to  children  ; 
he  is  but  recently  born,  and  has  very  little  hair. 
There  is  a  drop  of  milk  awaiting  him,  and  his  lips 
are  exactly  shaped  for  the  teat. 

Clearly  the  underlying  principle  of  this  school  of 
painting  is  not  the  same  as  with  us.  They  painted 
to  please  some  rich  and  tranquil  burgher,  living  in 
comfort  and  adorning  his  house.  We  paint  for  the 
cross  at  the  Exposition,  or  to  make  a  name,  to  be 


44  JOURNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

talked  about,  to  stimulate  the  jaded  taste  of  a  few 
Parisians  or  cosmopolitans,  critics  and  their  readers, 
and  men  about  town. 

A  Moonlight  by  Van  der  Neer.  This  is  a  marvel- 
lous effect.  It  is  another  of  his  great  low-banked 
rivers ;  in  the  foreground  an  old  willow,  showing  the 
ravages  of  time,  and  two  fishermen  ;  in  the  shadow  a 
number  of  half-concealed  boats,  and  the  omnipresent 
humidity,  that  rises  between  the  earth  and  the  sky. 
The  marvellous  effect  is  the  superabundance  of  the  fog. 
It  is  exhaled  from  stream  and  land  alike  ;  the  mists 
swell  out  and  expand  themselves  in  fold  on  fold, 
floating  slowly  on  the  ubiquitous  vapour,  above  the 
parent  water,  which  engenders  them  continually  and 
for  ever.  The  vast  and  murky  night  which  shrouds 
the  whole  earth  collects  and  mingles  its  flocks  ;  every 
varying  shape  swims  up  and  disappears  in  its  gloom- 
ing depths,  now  black,  now  indigo,  like  the  swollen 
water  of  a  sluggish  canal. 

Mark  the  difference  in  the  contemporary  landscapes 
in  the  other  room,  Chaigneau,  Anastasi,  Pinguilly, 
Blin,  etc.  The  old  school  of  painting  seized  on 
fundamental  realities,  and  made  the  most  of  them  ; 
the  modern  painter  seizes  on  the  conspicuous  accident, 
the  differentiating  mark,  and  aims  at  reproducing  the 
effect.  Thus  the  Dutch  Landscape  of  Anastasi  is 


RENNES  45 

thoroughly  true  in  its  unpleasant  bluish-green  grass 
and  its  strange  dissolving  sky  of  bluish-black.  That 
strikes  us  by  contrast  with  our  French  sky.  But 
Anastasi  did  not  love  Holland,  and  he  missed  the 
essential,  the  lasting,  the  welcome  features  which  are 
the  discoveries  of  love. 

There  are  two  examples  of  Grayer.  The  Resur- 
rection of  Lazarus  is  signed  and  dated  1664.  It  has 
an  almost  Venetian  delicacy  of  soft  and  melting  hues, 
glimmerings  of  pink  light,  flesh  tints  passing  into  each 
other,  or  into  the  shadow,  glints  of  sunshine  in  hair  of 
red  gold,  or  in  gauzy  falls  of  lace.  Note  the  sister  of 
Lazarus,  with  her  beautiful  shapely  hands,  her  full 
throat,  smooth  as  satin,  surmounted  by  a  richly 
moulded  chin  and  deep  flushed  cheeks,  and  her  dark 
blue  skirt  of  satin,  lustrous  beneath  a  hood  of  golden 
damask.  What  a  kindly  and  gracious  lady!  No 
painters  can  surpass  the  Flemings,  except  the 
Venetians  themselves.  This  picture  is  much  better 
blended,  and  more  voluptuous  in  colour,  than  the 
Christ  on  the  Cross ;  and  it  seems  to  be  the  work  of 
a  Flemish  admirer  of  the  Venetian  school.  It  is  at 
once  real  and  idealised.  Grayer  has  not  a  great 
reputation,  because  he  has  been  in  some  sense  left 
out  of  account:  Rubens  has  smothered  him.  And 
in  this  Christ  on  the  Cross  he  is  indeed  far  from 


46  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

the  modern  studies  of  anguish  and  of  psychological 
refinement. 


Jordaens  also  has  a  Christ  on  the  Cross,  admirably 
finished  and  expressive.  There  is  no  movement. 
The  Christ  is  open-eyed,  and  tastes  in  silence  the 
bitterness  of  death.  There  are  fine  and  luminous 
flesh-tones  on  a  dark  background.  The  extreme 
beauty  of  the  picture  is  due  to  this  magnificence  of  the 
bright  flesh-tones  thrown  out  upon  a  dark  sky,  and  to 
the  profoundly  true  expression,  and  to  the  human 
types  copied  from  the  life.  I  have  seen  examples  of 
this  great  painter  at  Mayence,  la  Haye,  and  Antwerp. 
We  do  not  know  him  at  Paris,  where  we  possess 
nothing  but  one  of  his  drolleries. 

There  is  one  Dutch  picture,  however,  which  is 
absolutely  sublime — The  Newborn  Child,  attributed 
to  Lenain.  Two  women  are  gazing  at  a  week-old 
baby,  fast  asleep.  All  that  physiology  has  to  say 
about  the  first  phase  of  humanity  is  there !  Words 
cannot  express  the  child's  profound,  absorbing  sleep, 
like  the  sleep  it  slept  a  week  ago,  without  hair  or 
eyelashes,  its  lower  lip  drawn  down,  its  nostrils  and 
mouth  open,  mere  gateways  of  the  breath,  its  bright 
skin  without  a  fold,  scarce  touched  as  yet  by  the 
.air,  still  as  it  were  a  simple  graft  of  vegetative  life. 


RENNES  47 

The  upper  lip  is  curled  back ;  it  has  no  function  but 
to  breathe.  The  tiny  body,  is  clasped  and  bound 
in  its  stiff  white  swaddling-clothes  like  a  mummy  in 
its  shroud.  There  could  be  no  better  expression 
to  indicate  this  primitive  torpor,  this  soul  not  yet 
summoned  from  its  tomb.  All  this  is  thrown  into 
relief  by  the  dull  presence  of  the  mother,  by  the 
simple  crudity  of  the  strong  red  dress  which  casts 
its  warm  reflection  on  the  little  mass  of  plump  flesh. 

The  impression  of  inertness,  of  a  mere  mass  of 
breathing  flesh,  is  increased  as  we  note  the  round 
unshaped  nose,  red  with  its  pulsing  veins,  and  the 
skin,  so  delicate  that  you  might  suppose  it  to  be 
non-existent.  The  forehead  is  absolutely  smooth, 
without  a  fold  or  a  wrinkle,  fat,  shining,  rounded, 
all  sheathed  in  flesh  ;  the  whole  face  equally  smooth 
with  its  vegetation  of  flesh — flesh  so  soft  that  the 
slightest  finger -touch  would  make  a  little  pit. 
Nothing  but  the  vigour  of  the  vitality  of  birth  could 
expand  and  hold  together  a  pulp  so  elastic  and  so 
humid.  The  closing  of  the  eyelids  is  indicated  by 
the  scarcely  perceptible  chink  which  divides  them  ; 
the  light  lashes  are  imperceptible,  even  if  their 
growth  has  begun.  The  pink  of  the  face  deepening 
into  purple,  lymphatic  and  sanguine,  wax-like  and 
almost  fluent,  is  in  contrast  with  its  crude  white, 
and  with  the  long  linen  wrap  which  completely 


48  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

enfolds  him.  And  the  whole  effect  is  heightened  by 
the  thoroughly  Flemish  aspect  of  the  young  mother, 
with  her  quiet  sheepish  features,  and  by  the  heifer-like 
stolidity  of  the  middle-aged  woman  who  holds  the  light. 
The  dominant  impression  here  is  that  this  genuine 
painter  is  a  simple  body-artist.  The  subject  is  in- 
significant ;  but  with  what  closeness  and  profundity 
he  has  grasped  the  physical  reality,  with  all  its  life 
and  colouring!  The  more  genuine  an  artist  is,  the 
more  constantly  and  assiduously  he  labours  to  re- 
produce the  actual. 

The  Woman  taken  in  Adultery,  by  Loth,  is  an 
admirable  piece  of  Flemish  realism.  The  rich 
sensuous  woman,  in  her  bodice  of  dark  flesh-colour 
and  her  yellow  drapery,  the  soft  bosom,  the  painted 
eyes  and  pouting  expression,  stupid-looking  amidst 
the  vulgar  and  hilarious  mockers  who  surround  her, 
is  quite  a  study  of  the  lymphatic  and  sanguine 
Flemish  temperament.  In  eyes  such  as  those,  tears 
have  not  the  same  effect  as  in  those  of  our  own 
countrymen.  This  is  still  more  evident  in  Jordaens' 
Christ  on  the  Cross,  which  hangs  beneath  the  other. 

Dry  and  cold  is  the  Magdalen,  of  Philippe  de 
Champagne,  a  psychologist's  well-bred  lady.  A 
painter  is  nothing  if  not  an  expert  in  temperament. 


XENNES  49 

The  Andromeda  and  Perseus  of  Veronese.  Andro- 
meda stands  undraped,  with  one  knee  bent,  restless, 
enveloped  in  gray  shadows ;  her  foot  and  knee  are 
flushed  with  light ;  her  red  robe  has  slipped  from 
its  knot,  and  fallen  beside  her.  It  is  a  picture  of 
the  voluptuous,  refined  rather  than  commonplace 
voluptuousness.  Well  might  they  dally  away  two  or 
three  centuries,  with  their  music,  and  women  like 
that !  Nowhere  could  you  find  a  more  exquisite 
ear,  or  lovelier  locks  under  such  strings  of  pearls,  or 
flesh  of  such  perfect  contour,  so  sensitive  to  the 
touch.  Perseus,  with  averted  face,  floats  towards 
her  through  the  clear  sky ;  beneath,  a  grey  city 
shows  across  the  waves,  with  bridges  and  turrets 
like  those  of  Venice.  It  is  an  admirable  back- 
ground ;  bold  and  strange  is  the  motion  of  the 
warrior,  glittering  in  his  garment  of  lustrous  violet 
and  yellow. 

This  type  is  supplemented  by  a  Massacre  of  the 
Innocents,  with  its  vehement  confusion  and  multi- 
plicity of  attitudes.  It  is  fertile  in  suggestion  and 
full  of  animation,  though  in  a  different  sense  from 
that  of  Raphael's  work.  We  are  in  another  world, 
where  beauty  is  full  of  marrow,  not  deformed  and 
overcast  with  the  ugliness  of  realism,  as  in  Flanders, 
but  ample  and  charmingly  rounded.  Here  are  full 

well-turned  throats,  and  shoulders  substantial  though 

D 


50  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

tender,  which  claim  our  admiration ;  hair  drawn 
slightly  away  from  the  face,  delicately  shortened 
noses,  dainty  ears,  eyes  full  of  challenge,  all  showing 
the  character  and  quality  of  these  beautiful  forms. 

A  Louis  Treize  Ballet  is  the  work  of  Abraham 
Bosse,  of  the  seventeenth  century.  In  the  costumes 
there  is  a  reminiscence  of  the  display  of  Matamore, 
and  the  rough  trooper  of  the  civil  wars.  The  same 
roughness  is  still  more  conspicuous  in  the  Ball  at 
the  Court  of  the  Valois.  The  cavaliers  clasp  the 
ladies  firmly,  so  as  to  be  ready  for  a  jump,  in  the 
style  of  a  village  dance.  Those  who  are  seated  hold 
them  on  their  knees,  with  their  arms  round  their 
waists.  All  the  men  are  lively,  brainless  fellows. 
One,  with  his  back  to  us,  shows  his  profile,  with 
reddish  beard  and  moustache.  Another,  dressed  in 
white  silk,  and  wearing  an  enormous  ruff,  -with  pearls 
in  his  ears,  a  genuine  type  of  the  period  of 
Henry  III.,  is  a  sort  of  well-bred  assassin,  gay  and 
cruel  as  Coconas.  They  are  nimble  as  greyhounds, 
and  their  costume  heightens  the  effect;  it  clings  to 
the  body  and  sets  off  the  figure,  shows  up  the 
muscles  and  emphasizes  their  strength  and  agility; 
it  is  just  the  thing  for  jumping,  wrestling,  or  fenc- 
ing. The  thick  braided  doublet  is  as  good  as  a 
breastplate.  The  cloak  bespeaks  the  hard  rider,  and 


KENNES  5 1 

so  does  the  plumed  and  broad-brimmed  hat.  Some 
wear  high  narrow-brimmed  hats,  adorned  by  tufts 
sprinkled  with  gold.  This  dress  of  bright  contrasted 
colours  supports  at  once  the  idea  of  brutal  jollity 
and  habitual  display ;  the  women,  buried  in  their 
enormous  dresses  and  cylindrical  sleeves,  have  the 
same  empty-headed  appearance.  When  they  want 
to  dance  they  have  to  leap  vigorously  ;  and  they 
are  correspondingly  unwieldy  in  the  hands  of  their 
partners.  In  brief,  they  are  contemporaries  of  Bran- 
tome,  a  sorry  rout  of  vigorous,  base,  and  sensual 
creatures. 

My  tens  (1636-1688)  affords  a  marked  and  in- 
structive contrast  in  his  Feast  in  honour  of  Marie 
de  Gonzague>  when  she  was  departing  for  the  home 
of  her  husband,  the  King  of  Poland.  Its  delicacy 
and  simplicity  are  charming,  and  reveal  the  first 
phase  of  a  new  ceremonial  dignity  and  decency, 
as  well  as  the  Dutch  quietude  of  existence.  The 
costumes  are  plain  and  honest.  The  age  of  Louis 
Quatorze  is  at  hand. 

In  the  Library  of  Rennes  I  made  acquaintance 
with  sundry  Lives  of  the  Saints,  popular  stories 
and  poems,  collected  by  Hersent  de  la  Villemarque, 
and  a  volume  of  "  Mceurs  de  Bretagne/'  a  collection 
of  1794,  continued  by  Souvestre. 


52  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

Here  is  an  episode  from  the  life  of  a  Breton  saint, 
which  aptly  illustrates  the  savagery  of  the  feudal 
age,  the  tyranny  of  a  strong  and  solitary  man, 
with  no  control  apart  from  his  individual  whims. 
A  seigneur  has  seen  a  beautiful  girl,  whom  he 
wishes  to  marry.  The  father,  himself  a  lord,  refuses 
his  consent,  on  the  ground  that  the  other  is  in  the 
habit  of  slaying  his  wives  as  soon  as  they  are  in 
the  way  of  becoming  mothers.  The  saint  obtains 
from  the  seigneur  a  promise  that  he  will  treat  the 
maiden  well ;  and  then  the  marriage  takes  place, 
and  he  loves  her  passionately.  She  goes  the  way 
of  her  predecessors,  and  then  he  begins  to  grumble,, 
and  eyes  her  askance.  She  is  alarmed,  and  rides 
off  on  horseback,  that  her  child  may  be  born  at 
her  father's  castle.  The  husband  pursues  her  in  his 
rage,  and,  though  she  conceals  herself  in  a  wood, 
he  tracks  her  like  a  wolf  after  a  hind,  and  cuts  off 
her  head.  The  saint  arrives  on  the  spot,  replaces 
the  head,  and  bids  her  rise ;  which  command  she 
obeys.  She  tells  him  that  she  had  been  in  heaven, 
but  resumed  her  body  at  his  word.  Her  child  is 
born  at  her  father's  castle  ;  after  which  she  becomes 
a  nun  for  the  rest  of  her  days,  and  her  son  was 
St  Travers. 

The  morals  of  the  Bretons  are  still  very  primitive. 


KENMES  53 

Whole  families  go  into  the  towns  once  a  week,  visit 
a  tavern,  and  drink  all  day  until  they  can  drink  no 
more.  Then  one  of  them,  who  has  bargained  to 
remain  all  but  sober,  lays  the  rest  in  his  cart,  and 
drives  them  home. 

Souvestre  has  described  a  wedding- feast.  There 
are  five  hundred  at  table,  each  with  a  glass,  a  plate, 
and  a  wooden  spoon.  They  go  on  eating  for  three 
or  four  hours,  as  quick  as  they  can,  using  both 
hands,  gorging  themselves  red  in  the  face,  like  wolves 
at  a  feast ;  and  then  they  smoke  and  dance.  That 
is  like  the  Arabs,  when  they  light  on  a  sheep  after 
long  fasting. 


FROM  RENNES  TO  LE  MANS  AND 
TOURS. 

THE  country  is  transformed  ;  the  wild  and  succulent 
verdure  ceases.  There  are  no  more  oaks ;  the 
moisture  grows  less  abundant.  We  pass  the  Loir, 
and  presently  come  in  sight  of  the  Loire. 

There  is  a  wide  plain,  a  stream  with  no  defined 
course,  which  is  often  in  flood  and  often  runs  partly 
dry,  amidst  eyots  of  shingle  and  long  banks  of  sand. 
The  sandbanks  have  a  certain  vegetation,  and  there 
are  broad  lands  covered  with  stunted  pines. 

But,  especially  after  passing  Tours,  nothing  could 
be  more  cheerful,  or  give  better  indication  of  comfort 
and  prosperity.  There  are  beautiful  meadows, 
abundant  crops,  fruit  trees,  and  rows  of  poplars, 
with  every  now  and  then  a  peaceful  farm.  Hemp, 
corn,  various  kinds  of  fruit,  are  plentiful ;  there  is 
no  more  buckwheat,  as  in  Brittany.  The  sky  adds 
to  the  pleasantness  and  cheerfulness  of  the  country. 
The  velvet  southern  sky  begins  at  this  point,  a 
radiant  blue  infused  with  light,  like  the  clearest 

54 


FROM  RENNES  TO  LE  MANS  AND  TOURS          55 

crystal.  This  lovely  colour,  sparkling  and  tender, 
sheds  a  glow  of  happiness  over  the  trees,  over  the 
long  stretch  of  fertile  fields ;  the  whole  landscape 
resembles  a  garden,  not  the  formal,  plotted,  econo- 
mised garden  of  England,  but  somewhat  casually 
tended,  with  a  suggestion  of  neglect,  though  man's 
light-hearted  negligence  robs  him  of  no  whit  of  earth's 
prodigality.  A  few  white  castles,  with  picturesque 
turrets,  perched  like  pigeons  amongst  the  foliage, 
raise  their  blue  pointed  roofs  and  survey  the  plain 
from  their  vantage-ground.  They  bring  to  mind 
the  happy  life  of  the  Valois,  and  Diana  of  Poitiers, 
and  Francis  I.  and  Rabelais,  the  careless,  gallant 
ways  of  life,  the  hunting,  the  boating-parties  on  those 
bright  and  wayward  streams.  This  was  the  very 
scene  for  the  beauties  of  Jean  Goujon,  Germain 
Pilon,  Primatice,  Rosso,  the  fine  voluptuous  heads, 
the  bound  hair,  the  dainty  limbs  that  would  be  ever 
peeping  from  behind  their  drapery ! 

I  passed  the  night  at  Tours.  There  is  a  fine  wide 
street,  crowded  and  full  of  shops,  quite  in  the  style 
of  Paris,  with  the  same  tattoo,  drums,  trumpets,  noisy 
clash  of  sound,  with  overwhelming  din  of  popular 
amusements,  in  which  everyone  seemed  to  be  taking 
a  part.  An  unmistakable  contrast  to  Rennes. 

I  rose  at  five  in  the  morning,  in  order  to  see  the 


56  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

Cathedral.  The  porch  is  very  fine  and  rich,  well 
carved,  with  two  towers  ending  in  blunted  points ; 
but  there  is  too  much  exaggeration  of  the  Gothic. 
Stone  lacework  everywhere — mere  filigree  ;  you  would 
not  get  more  delicate  and  manifold  mouldings  in 
a  drawing-room.  The  consequence  is  that  nothing 
fixes  the  attention.  Many  of  the  apertures  and 
windows  have  been  built  in  to  arrest  the  crumbling 
of  the  stone ;  on  the  right  hand  an  enormous  patch 
of  masonry  has  been  clapped  on  in  wretched  fashion 
from  ground  to  roof.  There  is  the  same  thing  at 
Strasbourg,  where  the  framework  of  the  belfry  is  of 
iron,  the  stone  just  concealing  it.  This  is  vulgarised 
and  debased  art.  Mediaeval  civilisation  is  all  like 
that,  showy  and  hollow. 

Nothing  is  sound ;  incongruity  is  everywhere. 
The  apse  is  a  sort  of  pigeon-cote,  tiled  with  slates. 
There  are  many  buttresses  encroaching  on  the  street, 
like  dislocated  claws  of  a  crab,  to  bolster  up  some 
protuberance  or  other.  The  interior  is  fine,  lofty, 
and  full  of  ideas.  The  painted  windows  struck  me 
most.  The  morning  sun  glowed  in  the  large 
windows  of  the  apse  like  a  radiant  resurrection 
dawn  ;  the  three  roses  began  to  sparkle,  more  gorge- 
ous than  a  peacock's  tail ;  but  the  effect  was  quite 
of  a  different  order,  full  of  vehemence  and  pain. 
These  colours  have  a  voice ;  they  are  all  in  excess, 


FROM  RENNES  TO  LE  MANS  AND  TOURS          $? 

bright  yellow,  scarlet,  a  great  mass  of  deep  violet, 
the  most  tragic  of  all  hues,  which  ought  to  be  before 
our  eyes  in  our  moments  of  ecstasy. 

I  remember  a  beautiful  group  at  Poitiers,  in  the 
right  aisle  of  the  cathedral,  apparently  fifteenth 
century,  almost  contemporary  with  the  first  of  the 
Solesmes  statues.  It  is  an  Entombment.  The  Christ, 
full-bearded,  a  wretched  earth-worm,  emaciated  by 
grief,  dried  up,  wasted  in  body,  a  mere  skeleton 
under  a  skin,  shrunken  and  discoloured  by  wounds, 
caked  with  blood :  such  was  the  Man  of  Sorrows 
whom  the  fillers  of  these  rose-lights  had  in  their 
minds. 

The  day  before  yesterday  I  saw  the  foundry  of 
Ruelle.  I  noted  a  few  interesting  facts.  The  work- 
men earn  from  twenty-six  to  fifty  sous  a  day ;  half 
of  them  have  accumulated  some  property,  from 
fifteen  to  fifty  thousand  francs,  perhaps  a  little 
carriage,  but  generally  a  house.  An  American 
Colonel  who  was  visiting  the  place  said  to  me : 

"  That  is  the  best  of  France :  they  are  better  off 
than  their  fellows  in  any  other  country.  Above  all, 
they  do  not  dream  of  leaving  the  ranks." 

It  is  the  southern  aristocratic  type  all  over ;  and 
he  is  right.  These  people  have  acquired  their  ideal 
since  the  Revolution — a  patch  of  land.  Their 


58  JOURNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

ambition  does  not  rise  beyond  it ;  an  occasional 
good  dinner,  and  no  very  heavy  taxes.  France  is 
made  for  them. 

On  the  other  hand,  ambitions  are  much  limited. 
There  are  two  young  men  of  five-and-twenty,  one 
a  rich  farmer's  son,  the  other  the  son  of  a  well-to-do 
proprietor,  who  are  designers  at  the  foundry  on  forty 
sous  a  day. 

The  townspeople,  again,  are  shut  off  from  the 
world ;  their  life  has  no  amplitude,  no  connecting 
links.  You  might  compare  them  to  so  many  little 
jars  of  stagnant  water ;  no  one  is  in  full  evidence. 
The  Colonel  says  that  our  manners  here  are 
peculiar  to  ourselves.  Frenchmen's  doors  are  closed 
to  foreigners,  except  for  a  few  compulsory  receptions 
of  persons  high  in  office.  What  a  contrast  to  English 
and  American  hospitality!  In  the  United  States 
you  bring  a  letter  of  introduction  to  a  single  person,, 
and  before  the  day  is  over  you  receive  a  score  of 
visiting  cards ;  the  American  has  been  exhorting  his 
friends  to  see  you,  and  already  twenty  hospitable 
houses  are  open  to  you. 

"All  we  know  of  France  is  Paris,"  says  the  Colonel;, 
and  that  is  true.  Even  at  Paris  we  draw  the  line  at 
verbal  politeness.  There  is  half-an-hour's  pleasant 
conversation,  and  that  is  all.  Receptions  are  im- 
possible; life  is  too  full  of  occupation,  our  houses 


FROM  RENNES  TO  LE  MANS  AND  TOURS          59 

are  two  smaH,  and  our  manner  of  living  too  re- 
stricted. At  the  utmost  we  take  our  guest  to  a 
restaurant;  we  mistrust  ourselves,  and  lock  up  our 
minds.  Hospitality  is  an  aristocratic  virtue. 

I  find  myself  coming  back  again  and  again  to  this 
idea,  that  France  is  a  democracy  of  peasants  and 
working-men  under  a  motherly  administration,  with 
a  restricted  town  population  which  lives  cheaply  and 
grows  rusty,  and  with  needy  officials  who  are  on  the 
look-out  for  promotion,  and  never  take  root. 


BORDEAUX. 

THE  change  of  type  is  remarkable.  It  had  already 
begun  to  change  at  Ruelle.  It  may  be  looked  for 
especially  in  the  young  women.  Here  there  is  some- 
thing which  is  both  delicate  and  sprightly.  In  a 
child,  still  fresh  to  life  and  modest,  the  effect  is 
charming.  The  white  cap  adds  to  the  gathered 
knot  of  hair,  which  stands  high  and  prominent 
behind,  somewhat  in  the  style  of  1830.  This 
attractive  white  crest,  trim  and  clean,  throws  out 
the  delicate,  intelligent  face,  slightly  browned,  and 
without  much  colour.  The  neck  is  slender,  the 
eyes  black,  the  body  slim ;  and  one  cannot  but 
be  pleased  with  the  intelligent  brightness  of  the 
type. 

These  features  are  yet  more  strongly  marked  at 
Bordeaux.  Accent,  looks,  figure,  all  change  together. 
The  people  are  short  and  full  of  movement ;  their 
bearing  and  their  gait  remind  you  of  rats,  of  nimbly 
scurrying  mice.  The  poorest  girls  v/ear  their  clothes 
coquettishly,  with  many  a  flaunt  and  turn  to  show 

60 


BORDEAUX  6 1 

off  their  figure.  The  kerchief  on  their  heads  is 
elegantly  arranged. 

This  town  is  a  sort  of  second  Paris,  gay  and 
magnificent,  with  wide  streets,  promenades,  monu- 
ments, and  large  mansions.  The  streets  are  bustling 
and  full  of  carriages ;  there  is  no  lack  of  coaches,  of 
fine  toilettes,  or  of  money.  Amusement  is  the  main 

business,  in  marked  contrast  to  Rennes.  C » 

who  has  lived  here  four  years,  after  spending  eleven 
months  at  Rennes,  said  that  when  he  first  came  he 
thought  himself  in  Paradise.  In  short,  the  life  is 
gay,  much  in  evidence,  wholly  of  a  southern  cast ; 
whilst  the  trade  of  the  place,  largely  concerned  with 
wine,  keeps  plenty  of  money  circulating. 

They  are  right  to  amuse  themselves.  Since  I 
have  been  following  an  occupation  I  know  what  an 
occupation  means.  One  wants  to  turn  one's  back 
on  it,  to  forget  the  dulness  and  monotony  of  business, 
to  give  all  the  senses  their  draught  of  champagne. 
The  life  of  the  artist  or  the  author  is  of  quite  another 
kind.  He  has  had  his  joy,  has  created,  has  done  a 
man's  work  all  day,  and  wants  to  rest  in  the  evening. 

I  was  over-tired.  I  had  seen  nothing,  even  on 
my  ride  from  Tours,  except  vague  and  misty  forms, 
evening  after  evening,  infinitely  sad  and  touching, 
and  except,  also,  the  smiling  district  of  Ruelle — the 
vines  on  every  hill,  the  glittering  meadows  in  the 


62  JOURNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

low-lying  lands ;  fresh  water  in  the  lavish  streams, 
with  reeds  and  luxuriant  water  plants ;  poplars  on 
^very  hand,  with  a  strange  emerald  glow  in  the  shade 
beneath  them,  pierced  by  the  flashing  and  breaking 
darts  of  the  sun  ;  here  and  there  bright  lights  in  the 
background.  At  a  distance,  low  sloping  roofs  with 
light-coloured  tiles,  an  occasional  windmill,  a  vener- 
able church  with  its  picturesque  village,  such  as  one 
sees  in  Italy,  on  the  edge  of  a  clear  blue  lake. 

I  have  been  several  times  at  Bourdeax  ;  I  have 
seen  and  described  the  river  and  the  excellent  port.1 
To-day,  between  two  showers  of  rain,  I  walked  in 
the  Botanic  Garden,  which  is  new  to  me.  There 
is  a  placid,  green-banked  river,  plantations  of  young 
bananas,  fine  well-arranged  trees,  as  in  the  London 
parks.  But  the  neighbouring  houses  are  too  con- 
spicuous. 

The  main  thing  to  look  at  here  is  the  people.  The 
students  whom  I  saw  have  a  ready  and  decided 
manner  ;  they  invent  when  they  do  not  know.  They 
are  glib-tongued,  original,  and  ingenious.  Their  heads 
are  well  shaped,  often  sharp  featured,  and  always 
active.  How  different  from  the  sleepy  candidates 
at  La  Fleche ! 

The  accent  is  remarkable.     One  feels  inclined  to 

1  Voyage  aux  Pyrenees. 


BORDEAUX  63 

ask  them  :  "  Have  you  had  your  breakfast,  Jacquot  ?  " 
Their  pronunciation  is  crisp  and  rolling;  they  show 
great  volubility,  and  there  is  a  sing-song  from  time 
to  time  in  their  utterance. 

The  people  exhibit  an  independent  familiarity.  I 
wore  a  black  hat  and  gloves,  and  carried  a  brief-case 
under  my  arm.  I  asked  my  way  of  an  old  oyster- 
woman.  "  There  you  are,  my  friend,  close  by ! "  she 
said,  and  gave  me  a  pat  on  the  shoulder.  It  must 
be  added  that  she  took  a  few  steps  and  put  herself 
to  some  trouble  in  order  to  show  me  the  street. 
That  has  happened  to  me  several  times  here.  At 
the  hotel,  the  waiters  speak  to  us,  and  even  to  our 
Colonel  himself,  with  an  air  of  equality,  making 
remarks  on  the  qualities  of  the  dishes  which  they 
bring  us. 

There  was  an  amusing  scene  as  I  was  on  my  way 
to  Cenon.  I  was  looking  for  the  omnibus,  and  came 
upon  a  crowd  of  fiacres,  coaches,  and  other  vehicles. 
A  good  ten  drivers  descended  upon  me.  "Where 
are  you  going  ?  Here  you  are !  .  .  .  Cinquant6  sous, 
quarrante"  sous,  trennte"  sous.  .  .  .  I'll  take  you  to  the 
foot  of  the  hill.  .  .  .  I'm  going  quite  close ;  I  know 
the  house ;  it's  the  only  house  I  do  know.  .  .  .  Get 
in !  ...  Am  I  to  take  you  ?  .  .  .  T£nez,  viola  une 
place",  une  bonne"  place."  It  was  a  regular  inundation. 
I  take  an  omnibus,  and  repeat  my  question.  There- 


64  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

upon  an  endless  flood  of  assurances.  In  the  end  he 
lands  me,  saying  that  the  place  was  within  two 
minutes.  A  washerwoman  hard  by  declares  that  it 
is  twenty  minutes  off.  This  puts  him  into  a  storm 
of  indignation ;  he  springs  from  his  seat,  turns  as 
red  as  a  cock,  gesticulates,  harangues  the  washer- 
woman, appeals  to  the  other  people  in  the  omnibus. 
I  had  walked  on  some  fifty  steps,  but  still  I  heard 
his  shrill  voice  and  saw  his  swinging  arms.  He  had 
lied  to  me,  with  the  imagination  and  ready  inven- 
tion of  the  southern  race.  On  the  road,  he  had 
jumped  down  at  every  turning  to  adjust  a  trace, 
or  to  talk  to  his  horse.  He  had  a  cigar  in  his 
mouth ;  he  was  ragged  and  dirty ;  the  wretched 
vehicle  was  drawn  by  ropes,  attached  to  a  sorry 
yellow  hack. 

They  take  no  trouble  about  anything  here;  they 
let  everything  slide,  and  make  shift  as  they  go 
along.  The  basis  of  their  character  is  the  necessity 
and  the  habit  of  immediate  expansion  ;  as  soon  as 
an  idea  occurs  to  them,  it  finds  vent  with  an  ex- 
aggeration which  is  not  a  little  ridiculous.  It  is  the 
temper  of  the  marionette.  With  this  they  are 
satisfied,  asking  for  nothing  more  than  easy,  in- 
stantaneous excitement  and  reproduction — to  go  out, 
to  dance,  to  frequent  the  cafe,  to  walk  about,  to  talk, 
and  laugh,  and  gesticulate.  The  French  character 


BORDEAUX  65 

is  much  more  marked    and  even   exaggerated   here 
than  elsewhere. 

In  Paris  there  is  quite  another  spirit.  I  meet  two 
caricatures  in  the  street,  and  instantly  feel  myself 
two  hundred  leagues  away.  A  husband  (with  an 
enormous  nose)  holds  his  six  months'  baby  in  his 
arms,  whilst  his  wife,  a  woman  of  thirty,  combs  her 
hair  and  tidies  herself.  With  a  comic  look  of  desola- 
tion he  exclaims :  "  Jove,  if  I  were  to  take  myself 
seriously ! "  (Si  Ton  reflechissait,  crenom !)  The 
companion  picture  is  that  of  the  husband  duped. 
The  Parisian  spirit  is  not  merely  external,  it  goes 
to  the  root  of  things,  and  has  its  element  of  immoral 
philosophy.  Look  at  Daumier,  Marcelin,  Gavarni, 
Marlotte's  men  and  women.  There  are  ideas  behind 
their  cheerfulness  ;  and  the  cheerfulness  itself  is  often 
only  apparent  or  transient.  The  real  basis  is  that 
of  sceptical  ideas. 

I  had  a  fine  view  of  Cenar,  thanks  to  the  grandeur, 
or  rather  the  breadth  of  the  landscape  ;  but  there 
was  nothing  characteristic.  It  was  but  a  chart  of 
physical  geography.  The  golden  splendour,  the  red 
conflagration  of  the  setting  sun  amongst  the  streaks 
of  luminous  mist,  were  its  only  beauty. 


FROM  BORDEAUX  TO  TOULOUSE. 

THIS  is  a  flat  country,  all  under  cultivation.  I  saw 
but  a  single  wood  in  a  railway  ride  of  six  hours. 
There  were  no  hills,  or  other  prominent  features, 
not  even  a  wide  plain.  All  was  petty  and  common- 
place. You  could  say,  "'Tis  a  fine  country,"  and 
have  done  with  it. 

Certain  alluvial  soils,  formed  by  the  Garonne,  are 
worth  fifteen  thousand  francs  the  hectare  ;  they  grow 
corn,  tobacco,  and  hemp.  Those  I  saw  are  of  an 
average  type,  and  yield  about  two  and  a  half  per 
cent,  on  the  capital. 

There  are  frequent  glimpses  of  the  Garonne  on 
the  right,  yellow  or  reddish-brown  from  the  sands. 
The  banks  are  lined  by  pale  osier-beds.  Then, 
between  its  two  raised  banks,  we  get  sight  of  the 
Southern  Canal,  the  aspect  of  which  is  not  charm- 
ing, however  great  its  utility.  There  is  wide  variety 
of  industry,  small  fields,  belonging  to  different  pro- 
prietors, and,  I  am  told,  not  very  grand  results, 


FROM  BORDEAUX    TO    TOULOUSE  6? 

The   division    of  the   land    has  destroyed  the  land- 
scape. 

The  houses  here  are  interesting,  thanks  to  the 
neighbourhood  of  Italy  and  the  balmy  climate.  The 
roofs  are  almost  flat ;  and  there  is  no  snow  in 
winter.  Many  houses  have  two  wings,  which  gives 
them  a  character  of  their  own.  Some  are  sur- 
rounded by  columns,  and  have  long  balconies,  built 
out  if  necessary  to  secure  a  western  aspect.  The 
belfries  are  square,  a  few  of  the  newer  ones  standing 
out  with  much  effect ;  and,  under  this  clear  sky 
and  brilliant  light,  their  clean  white  tapering  forms 
are  very  attractive.  The  bells  are  not  enclosed 
within  four  walls,  but  a  single  wall  is  built,  with 
apertures,  and  on  this  they  are  hung.  Now  and 
then  there  is  a  tower ;  and  there  are  a  few  chateaux, 
with  turrets  and  flagstaffs.  In  all  this  there  is  a 
measure  of  architectural  taste. 

Yet  I  cannot  help  feeling,  for  my  own  part,  that 
my  best  and  truest  pleasure  will  always  come  from 
the  forests  and  streams.  I  am  a  man  of  the  North, 
not  of  the  South. 


TOULOUSE. 

YESTERDAY,  in  the  public  square,  I  took  stock  of 
sundry  folk.  There  are  seats  under  the  arcades,  the 
caf£s  are  full,  the  square  is  occupied  by  kiosques  and 
laurel  trees ;  there  is  abundance  of  life  and  move- 
ment. 

I  passed  five  or  six  times  in  front  of  a  couple  of 
girls.  One  was  decidedly  pretty.  She  was  a  work- 
ing girl,  of  fine  figure,  dressed  in  a  yellow  print,  with 
a  handsome  bust,  and  back  hair  drawn  away  from 
her  head.  They  were  talking  well  and  without  re- 
straint, with  a  natural  grace.  The  old  shopkeeper 
next  to  them  was  having  a  good  time  of  it.  You 
would  almost  take  them,  at  first,  for  ladies.  The 
Southerner  possesses  a  sort  of  education  by  virtue  of 
his  origin  ;  he  is  saved  from  coarseness  by  his  birth. 
The  face  is  regular,  of  a  light-brown  complexion. 
You  are  predisposed  to  find  a  real  beauty,  more  than 
skin-deep,  and  you  anticipate  a  keen  spirit,  genuine 
wit,  not  to  say  nobility  of  character.  After  a  quarter 

68 


TOULOUSE  69 

of  an  hour  the  substratum  shows  itself;  all  is  super- 
ficial in  this  type  of  beauty  .and  spirit.  They  are 
graceful,  with  the  vivacity  of  a  bird — of  a  delicate 
twittering  tomtit;  but  there  is  nothing  more  in  their 
cackle.  If  you  wish  to  please  them  you  must  take 
them  to  a  ball,  feed  them,  crack  jokes,  talk  a  great 
deal,  and  make  them  talk  still  more ;  go  with  them 
to  listen  to  the  dance  music  and  military  bands. 
"  Ah !  how  much  more  beautiful  are  the  stars  when 
they  mirror  themselves  in  the  gutter  of  the  Rue  du 
Bac!"  They  make  me  think  of  poor  Heine's  Juliette, 
when  he  had  his  odd  experience  with  her  in  the 
Pyrenees. 

The  Parisian  girl  is  of  another  type — more  adapt- 
able, more  disposed  to  hover  on  the  outskirts  of 
luxury  and  corruption. 


STROLLS    IN    TOULOUSE. 

I  AM  without  sympathy  for  the  people  of  this  town. 
There  is  a  yelp,  a  shrill  metallic  ring,  in  the  accent. 
You  feel,  as  you  see  them  move  about  and  accost 
each  other,  as  though  you  were  amongst  a  different 


70  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

race — a  mixture  of  pug-dog  and  ape,  a  hollow  facility, 
an  unconscious  and  perpetual  exaggeration,  a  never- 
ceasing  want  of  tact.  For  instance:  a  lawyer  and 
a  boarding-house  master  came  pestering  us  with  a 
demand  to  enter  the  examination-room  at  their 
pleasure. 

My  impression  on  the  parade  yesterday  was  that 
these  good  folk  need  to  be  governed  from  without. 
They  are  utterly  incapable  of  self-control.  Blood, 
excitement,  anger,  rise  to  their  heads  on  the  slightest 
pretext.  I  was  told  how  near  they  came,  in  1841, 
to  making  an  end  of  M.  Plougoulm,  the  procureur- 
general. 

The  further  I  go,  the  more  I  am  convinced  of 
the  downward  tendency  of  our  democracy.  Its 
atmosphere  is  fatal  to  men  of  high  standing  and 
wide  culture  ;  we  have  monstrosities  and  powerful 
machines,  nothing  more ;  we  rest  on  a  mere  founda- 
tion of  respectabilities ;  we  have  reached  an  ideal, 
but  it  is  a  poor  ideal.  In  fine,  the  man  of  high 
standing  is  the  man  of  leisure,  who  has  no  trade, 
who  is  only  half  devoted  to  his  private  interest, 
who  is  concerned  with  broad  views,  who  takes  the 
lead,  like  the  English  aristocracy  of  our  own  days, 
or  the  Roman  and  Greek  of  other  times.  If  this 
aristocracy  is  to  endure  and  conciliate,  it  must  devote 
its  strength  and  its  time  to  the  public  service.  Also, 


TOULOUSE  71 

it  must  seek  out  the  best  products  of  the  other 
classes.  A  legislator  should,  recognise  that  it  is 
his  duty  to  bring  to  the  front  the  finest  and  most 
perfect  samples  of  humanity,  to  select  them  as  from 
a  herd,  to  cultivate  a  higher  grade  of  boys  and 
girls,  both  morally  and  physically  superior  in  heart 
and  brain,  endowed  with  knowledge,  free  to  develop 
their  faculties,  exempt  from  the  mechanical  drudgery 
of  mere  bread-winning.  That  done,  the  remainder 
of  the  herd  must  browse  quietly  and  securely,  led 
and  cared  for  by  the  others.  We  must  give  an 
excellent  start,  honour,  easy  circumstances,  the 
chance  of  founding  a  family,  all  the  higher  objects 
of  human  ambition,  to  proved  merit,  wherever  it 
may  be  found.  The  start  amongst  ourselves  is  in- 
adequate ;  but  there  is  a  moderate  start  for  moderate 
merit. 

It  may  be  urged,  on  the  other  hand,  that  a  country 
is  like  a  garden,  that  one  product  may  be  finer  and 
better  than  another,  but  that  all  gardens  cannot 
grow  it ;  that  all  depends  on  sun  and  aspect,  so 
that  a  good  gardener  knows  what  he  is  about 
beforehand ;  that  it  is  absurd  to  seek  pine-apples 
from  the  chalk  of  Champagne,  and  that  France,  in 
short,  is  now  growing  the  plants  which  it  is  able 
to  produce.  For  high-bred  souls  the  remedy  is 
to  avoid  sinking  into  the  commonplace  form  of 


72  JOURNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

existence,    and    to    live    apart,    like   Woepke   in    his 
Buddhism.1 

The  quays  are  fine ;  water  is  always  fine.  There 
is  a  great  mill  of  several  storeys,  and  several  water- 
courses, set  in  a  framework  of  trees  and  shrubs. 
A  large  lock  unites  the  streams  again  in  the  middle 
of  the  river.  The  red  buildings  glow  in  the  setting 
sun,  with  bright  or  softened  hues.  Opposite  is  an 
old  hospital  with  strange  narrow  windows,  but  great 
and  imposing;  its  high  discoloured  wall,  with  its 
poor  array  of  lights,  overhangs  the  river  boldly,  in 
mediaeval  fashion. 

Behind  it  is  the  great  dome  of  St  Nicholas,  which 
at  nightfall  assumed  a  sinister  appearance. 

Higher  up  the  stream  is  a  long,  solid  bridge  of 
stone,  flanked  at  the  approach  by  two  square  towers, 
running  to  a  point  at  the  top  in  the  style  of  Louis 
XIII.  Originally,  no  doubt,  they  were  for  purposes 
of  defence. 

The  hills  rise  towards  the  south.  The  sky  is  so 
clear  that  in  the  far  distance  the  chain  of  the 
Pyrenees  looks  like  a  white  bed  of  watery  clouds. 
The  river,  dressed  in  smiling  verdure,  skirts  along 


1  See  the  account  of  Franz  Woepke,  in  the  NouveaMX  Essais 
de  Critique  et  dHistoire,  p.  317. 


TOULOUSE  73 

them.  It  has  reminded  me  of  my  beautiful  journey 
—beautiful  though  sad ;  and  all  that  was  ideal  about 
it  I  have  set  down  in  my  book.1  So  it  is  always ; 
there  are  only  a  few  landscapes  which,  at  some 
moments,  look  supremely  beautiful.  As  a  rule, 
our  sensations  are  rudimentary,  mere  motifs  of  a 
cavatina.  If  they  are  to  be  perfect,  we  must  correct 
and  complete  them.  I  feel  it  now  again.  Here 
and  there  a  facade,  a  few  old  houses  of  wood  and 
clay,  a  few  Renaissance  turrets  and  Gothic  churches 
—  but  it  would  be  necessary  to  elaborate  the 
picture. 

Yesterday,  however,  the  church  of  St  Etienne,  at 
six  o'clock  in  the  evening,  struck  me  as  full  of 
grandeur  and  melancholy.  It  is  all  irregular,  and 
collapsing  on  one  side.  But  in  the  dim  interior 
there  was  a  vast  collection  of  large  paintings  and 
carvings,  begrimed  and  indistinct  in  contrast  with 
the  fitful  gleams  of  light.  I  cannot  find  words 
to  describe  these  unfathomable,  vague,  tremulous, 
Rembrandt-like  obscurities,  this  imposing  shipload 
of  ghosts.  The  rose-window  still  retained  a  half- 
gleam  of  light,  saddening  and  mystical  with  its 
violet-hued  carnations,  its  strange  confused  forms, 
the  last  scintillations  of  its  dolorous  magnificence. 


1  Voyage  aux  Pyrenees. 


74        JO  URNE  YS  THR 0 UGH  FRANCE 

It  was  like  a  dream  of  heaven   that  visits  by  night 
a  lovinsr  and  tormented  soul. 


J  walked  frequently  through  the  town,  especially 
in  the  evening.  It  is  all  awry  and  misshapen.  "  It 
is  Poitiers  in  Sunday  best,"  said  the  Colonel.  But 
there  is  movement  in  the  streets,  a  crowd  in  the 
square  and  at  the  cafe ;  and  all  wavering  in  a  deep 
shadow,  streaked  with  light.  It  is  not  a  dead  city, 
but  a  provincial  centre  and  capital,  proud  of  itself. 
There  are  two  widely  circulated  papers,  taken  in 
by  the  humblest  barber  and  pork-butcher.  Here  in 
our  hotel,  the  best  in  Toulouse,  there  is  not  a 
single  Parisian  paper.  The  Aigle  and  the  Journal 
de  Toulouse  are  full  of  local  news.  Some  vocalist 
known  in  the  neighbourhood  is  about  to  make  a 
first  appearance  at  Lyon.  Leotard,  the  gymnast,  is 
here,  and  they  make  a  boast  of  that.  They  have 
a  correspondent,  a  local  gentleman,  who  discourses 
on  important  political  questions.  I  see  there  are 
sundry  booksellers — one  well  stocked  with  new 
books — refutations  of  Renan,  refutations  even  of  the 
refutations. 

These  people  pay  much  attention  to  their  dress. 
The  men  are  smart  and  dandified  in  their  appearance, 
with  well-trimmed  tufts  of  beards,  and  close-buttoned 
overcoats.  They  are  so  many  little  Italian  hair- 


TOULOUSE  75 

dressers.  My  soldier  yesterday,  a  man  from  Bar  le 
Due,  did  not  spare  them. 

"  They  are  all  liars  and  scandal-mongers,"  he  said, 
"  and  they  have  no  manners." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"Why,  at  the  theatre  they  hiss  all  the  time,  and 
keep  up  a  devil's  tattoo.  They  are  mere  brutes. 
But  they  have  a  respect  for  soldiers,  or  there  would 
be  any  amount  of  trouble." 

In  the  streets  you  see  the  most  unconsciously 
ridiculous  figures  and  attitudes  amongst  the  braggarts 
and  bullies  of  the  place.  Still  more  frequently  you 
are  struck  by  their  delightful  self-complacency  like 
that  of  Moliere's  Acaste  :— 

J;ai  du  bien,  je  suis  jeune,  et  sors  d'une  maison 
Qui  se  peut  dire  noble  avec  quelque  raison  ... 
Et  1'on  m'a  vu  pousser,  dans  le  monde,  une  affaire 
D'une  assez  vigoureuse  et  gaillarde  maniere  .  .  . 
Je  suis  assez  adroit,  j'ai  bon  air,  bonne  mine, 
Les  dens  belles  surtout,  et  la  taille  fort  fine. 
Quant  a  se  mettre  bien,  je  crois,  sans  me  flatter, 
Qu'on  serait  mal  venu  de  me  le  disputer. 

The  "  gentleman "  is  a  rarity  in  France.  A  host 
of  important  persons,  officials  and  landowners,  come 
crawling  to  us  on  behalf  of  their  sons,  begging  us  to 
rob  somebody  else  of  his  position  to  give  it  to 


76  JOURNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

them.1  Whether  they  do  it  with  a  brazen  face  or 
with  circumlocution,  it  is  still  a  demand  that  we 
should  act  unjustly.  They  consider  that  such  partiality 
would  be  perfectly  natural ;  and  they  have  the  same 
idea  of  unfairness  in  examinations.  Copying  went 
on  at  this  centre  in  the  most  unblushing  fashion. 
My  colleagues  told  me  that  the  South  has  always 
been  less  scrupulous  in  examinations  than  the  North. 
It  is  traditional  in  France ;  under  the  old  Monarchy 
it  was  quite  the  thing  to  beg  favours  of  the  judges. 
To  this  day  you  do  not  gain  admission  to  the 
public  Journals  if  you  have  no  friends  upon  them. 

In  England,  on  the  contrary,  my  friend  C told 

me  that  you  could  never  thank  an  editor  for  insert- 
ing your  article :  it  would  annoy  him.  Carlyle,  in 
his  life  of  John  Sterling,  quotes  a  letter  of  Sir 
Robert  Peel's  to  the  editor  of  the  Times,  and  the 
reply  that  was  sent.  This  is  the  land  of  favours, 
but  the  other  is  a  land  of  justice. 

I  have  seen  many  old  houses  out  of  repair,  tiled 
roofs,  a  strange  medley  of  ill-assorted  houses  in 

1  There  is  plenty  of  comedy  about  these  examinations.  One 
father  brings  his  son  before  the  time,  in  order  that  he  may  get 
to  know  the  Colonel's  face.  Another  leaves  flasks  of  oil  with 
the  porter,  as  presents  for  the  examiners.  We  had  to  transfer 
them  to  the  police  commissioner. 


TOULOUSE  77 

every  style  of  building.  The  paving  is  of  wretched 
little  pointed  stones,  river  shingle,  which  is  painful 
to  walk  upon.  But  the  charm  and  serenity  of  the 
sky  the  pure  and  brillant  azure,  are  admirable. 

I   took  a  walk   yesterday  under   the  guidance  of 

M.   B ,  Professor   of  History  at  the  University. 

He  is  fifty-five,  and  looks  forty.     He  is  a  Liberal, 
and   moves   in  good  aristocratic  society,  is  well  off 
has  artistic  tastes,  and  is  a  devoted  antiquarian.     As 
we  walked  he  had  much  to  say  about  the  general 
condition  of  things.     At  Toulouse  there  are  seventy- 
seven  religious  houses  in  a  population  of  a  hundred 
thousand,  including  three  great  colleges,  one  of  them 
containing    five    hundred    students.      When     Frere 
Leotard  was  convicted,  many  people  regarded  him 
as   a   martyr ;    in  the  following   year  there  was   an 
increase   of    thirty   or   forty   students.      At    Poitiers 
there  are  thirty-eight  religious  houses  in  a  popula- 
tion of  thirty-five  thousand.     There  and  at  Rennes 
the  lycees  have  lost  half  their  pupils  through  com- 
petition.    I  myself  saw  at  Bordeaux,  six  years  ago, 
a   big   handsome    building   which    was    being    con- 
structed for  a  clerical   college.     One   such  building 
here  cost  two  million  francs.     At  Paris  the  religious 
schools  enter  seventy  or  eighty  pupils  at  Saint-Cyr 
every  year,  and  they  form  a  separate  clique.     Even 
at  paltry  towns  like  Rethel  they  monopolise  every- 


78  JOURNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

thing,  and  starve  the  little  municipal  colleges.  AH 
this  change  has  come  about  since  1852,  mainly 
through  the  Jesuits.  M.  Billault  spoke  in  the 
Chamber  of  the  bequests  of  which  the  Government 
has  cognizance,  amounting  to  millions  every  year. 
And  how  much  is  there  which  is  never  declared  ? 

We  do  not  consider  all  this  at  Paris.  We  live  in 
a  little  world  of  cultured  and  intellectual  sceptics, 
and  lose  sight  of  the  vast  public,  the  vast  France. 
We  authors  ought  to  know  these  things  better  than 
anybody.  What  can  the  black-coated,  well-gloved, 
provincial  tradesman,  official,  nobleman,  country 
gentleman,  or  landowner,  be  expected  to  read  ? 
Next  to  nothing.  They  are  outside  our  sphere. 
The  clerical  net  is  spread  in  these  stagnant  marshes. 
It  is  the  old  ladies,  the  fathers  who  have  turned 
Conservative  in  their  dotage,  who  make  these  be- 
quests to  the  clergy.  They  have  no  excitement, 
no  mental  stimulus  ;  religion,  with  its  pomps  and 
associations,  the  weight  of  tradition,  the  never-end- 
ing solemn  litany,  draw  them  back  into  the  old 
routine.  This  explains  the  great  commotion  over 
the  "  Life  of  Jesus  "  ;  it  was  like  a  stone  dropped  into 
a  frog- pond. 

At  table  we  discussed  the  probable  outcome  of 
this  state  of  things.  Will  Catholicism  dwindle  down, 
as  M.  Guizct  believes,  like  paganism  under  Julian, 


TOULOUSE  79 

transformed,  re  -  interpreted,  assuming  a  symbolic 
shape?  For  my  part,  I  do  not  believe  that  a  pro- 
fessor in  a  religious  seminary  will  ever  become  a 
critic  like  Michel  Nicolas,  or  a  symbolist  like 
lamblichus.  The  most  reasonable  anticipation  is  that 
of  a  series  of  plethoras  and  blood-lettings.  Church- 
men will  enrich  themselves  during  fifty  years  of 
peace,  and  when  the  revolutions  come  to  a  head 
their  property  will  be  confiscated.  But  these  violent 
periodical  purges  are  not  wholesome. 

Here  the  various  ranks  of  society  hold  themselves 
apart.     There  is  only  one  house  where  they  mingle, 

that  of  an  old  lady  whom  Professor  B insisted  last 

night  on  taking  me  to  see.  There  were  many  of  the 
poorer  nobility,  families  living  on  from  ten  to  thirty 
thousand  pounds  a  year.  They  spend  three  months 
at  Toulouse  amidst  a  certain  sort  of  luxury,  and 
economise  in  the  country  during  the  other  nine. 
They  make  much  of  the  eldest  son,  and  the  younger 
ones  do  their  best  to  marry  money.  Their  business 
in  life  is  to  fish  for  heiresses.  They  follow  no  calling; 
the  only  occupation  which  they  will  condescend  to 
think  about  is  that  of  an  officer  in  the  army,  and  the 
cavalry  for  choice.  Next  to  them  come  the  public 
officials,  then  the  townsfolk,  and  men  who  have  made 
a  fortune.  These  men  have  no  culture,  and  far  less 
politeness  than  similar  persons  in  the  North.  They 


8O  JOURNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

do  not  spend  much  on  hospitality,  but  they  have  their 
country  house  and  their  carriage. 

Their  morals  are  bad ;  you  hear  of  every  kind  and 
degree  of  dissipation.  The  young  moneyed  men  find 
nothing  else  to  do.  Unhappily  the  same  thing  is 
said  about  every  large  provincial  town. 

The  German  townsfolk  described  by  Goethe  afford 
a  great  contrast.  I  was  reading  to-night  his  A  us 
meinem  Leben.  What  harmless  manners  and  cool 
temperament  you  may  note  in  the  liberties  permitted 
in  his  days !  Young  people  embrace,  exchange 
tokens  of  affection,  play  at  marriage,  walk  out 
together  and  address  each  other  familiarly.  They 
must  have  had  nerves  of  ice  ! 

Professor  B showed  us  over  the  museum.  I 

spoke  of  it  towards  the  end  of  my  Voyage  aux 
Pyrenees.  It  is  charming.  It  was  once  a  convent. 
There  are  two  courts  surrounded  by  arcades,  which 
provide  a  square  promenade,  separated  from  the 
courts  by  triplet  pillars.  The  courts  are  full  of 
beautiful  green  shrubs,  and  the  cloisters  are  roofed 
with  red  tiles ;  behind  them  is  a  lofty  brick  tower, 
adorned  with  little  arched  windows  and  small 
columns.  This  solid  red  mass  against  the  splendid 
blue  of  the  sky  gladdens  the  heart. 

It   may   be   observed   that    the    Northern    Gothic 


TOULOUSE  8 1 

never  really  established  itself  here.  Run  through 
the  Italian  churches;  there,  is  nothing  sad,  or 
gloomily  fantastic.  Even  what  there  is  of  Gothic 
in  them  is  transformed,  made  peaceful,  converted 
into  true  and  almost  sober  beauty. 

The  most  curious  thing  in  the  town  is  Saint 
Sernin,  a  Roman  church  of  the  eleventh  century. 

Professor  B calls  it  the  finest  in  France.  He 

is  Ja  man  of  the  world,  but  enthusiasm,  the  uncon- 
scious and  not  unpleasing  pride  of  the  antiquarian, 
display  themselves  in  spite  of  his  habitual  modesty. 
This  church  is,  indeed,  vast  and  curious,  and  un- 
mixed in  style.  It  is  in  course  of  being  restored. 
It  is  pure  Roman,  indeed  thoroughly  Latin,  and  for 
this  reason  it  is  decidedly  interesting.  We  are  here 
on  the  border-line  of  two  artistic  styles.  The  Latin 
element  is  seen  in  the  full  semicircular  arcades, 
with  nothing  of  the  ogive;  the  main  dome  has  the 
same  semicircular  arches ;  the  square  pillars  are 
destitue  of  ornament,  except  that  a  column  in  half- 
relief  stands  out  from  the  front  face  of  each,  defining 
and  supporting  the  upper  dome.  This  produces  an 
impression  of  great  solidity,  simple,  sound,  and  placid, 
soothing  the  mind  by  its  regularity  and  quiet  force. 

The  passage  from  one  style  to  another  is  manifest 
in  the  altered  form  of  the  capitals.  Some  retain  the 
Greek  acanthus,  but  most  of  them  show  a  change  of 

F 


82  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

foliation,  or  a  barbarian  network  of  tracery  and  little 
animals  confused  together. 

There  are  five  domes  and  aisles,  the  domes  succes- 
sively diminishing  in  height  from  one  side  of  the 
building  to  the  other.  The  windows  are  not  very 
wide,  but  the  walls  are  very  thick ;  and  there  is  no 
painted  glass.  The  abundance  of  rounded  curves 
and  massive  structures  makes  a  fine  appearance,  and 
the  transformation  of  the  antique  by  the  elevation  of 
the  building,  by  the  gallery,  and  the  cruciform  plan 
of  the  church,  gives  a  very  pleasing  effect,  and  a 
sensation  of  novelty  and  originality. 

The  upright  figures  in  low  relief,  encrusted,  as  it 
were,  around  the  crypt,  are  thoroughly  primitive,  and 
worthy  of  the  tenth  century.  They  have  an  Egyptian 
air,  with  their  stiff  limbs,  narrow  chests,  and  heads 
turned  awkwardly  sideways,  almost  grotesque  in 
expression.  In  the  apse  are  statues  in  barbarian 
costume,  which  have  more  life,  and  carry  one  forward 
to  the  fifteenth  century. 

Outside,  there  is  a  delightful  belfry  of  five  octagonal 
stages  resting  on  arches,  the  three  lower  arcades 
being  rounded,  and  the  upper  two  pointed.  This 
is  novel  and  fine.  Behind  is  an  apse  of  rounded 
vaults,  rising  in  tiers,  like  those  at  Ravenna  and 
Verona.  In  short,  this  is  a  fine  structure,  in  direct 
descent  from  the  Roman  style,  built  on  a  very 


TOULOUSE  83 

simple  and  well-developed  idea,  like  all  antique 
and  classical  work.  The  aisles,  the  successive 
staging,  the  belfry,  the  secondary  apses,  show  the 
blossoming  of  the  ancient  architectural  idea.  For 
this  idea  was  developed  at  the  same  time  with  those 
of  society  and  worship.  More  space  was  needed 
for  that  new  crowd  of  humanity,  with  their  wives, 
children,  and  slaves — a  whole  nation  at  a  time. 
The  ancient  temple  was  local  and  aristocratic. 

B showed  us  several  old  and  well-preserved 

houses,  such  as  the  mansion  of  Assezat,  built  for 
Marguerite  de  Valois,  the  mansion  of  the  Caryatides, 
built  by  Bachelier,  under  Francis  I.,  with  others  of 
a  very  attractive  character.  The  Renaissance  style* 
the  windows  framed  with  fruit  and  flowers,  naked 
children,  satyrs  and  female  forms,  the  savour  of 
natural  luxuriance,  the  taste  for  rich  and  vivid 
decoration,  are  extremely  charming.  That  was  the 
true  age  of  artists  ;  we  are  but  commonplace  archae- 
ologists. All  our  modern  buildings,  even  the  Rue 
de  Richelieu  itself,  are  vapid  when  compared  with 
this — the  Louvre  and  the  Place  de  la  Concorde 
mere  scenes  in  an  opera-house ! 

These  mansions  are  terraced  in  front,  with  lawns, 
vines,  and  creepers,  drooping  in  places  from  the 
height  of  the  first  storey.  There  are  heads  and 


84  JOURNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

life-like  forms  above  the  doors,  and  in  the  angles 
of  the  buildings ;  the  fronts  are  animated  ;  there 
is  no  allegorical  and  pedantic  philosophy,  as  in  our 
day.  Renaissance  folk  loved  to  see  handsome  living 
beings ;  they  felt  the  joy  of  life. 

B took  us  to  his  house,  and  showed   us  his 

museum.  There  was  much  taste,  with  many  examples  ; 
amongst  other  things  a  collection  of  weights  from 
Southern  lands,  necklaces  and  ornaments  of  the  Gallo- 
Roman  age,  and  amber  of  many  varieties.  He  has  an 
enthusiasm  for  twelfth  and  thirteenth  century  art. 
He  showed  us  some  splendid  tombs  of  abbes,  with 
recumbent  figures  and  grandly  simple  heads  and 
draperies.  In  his  house  was  a  Virgin,  a  coarse, 
vulgar  peasant  girl,  but  yet  a  virgin,  with  arms  too 
slender,  and  gracefully-folded  vesture.  There  was 
also  an  ivory  of  the  eleventh  century — in  the  centre 
a  Christ,  and  sacred  figures  on  either  side;  a 
stiff,  hieratic  production,  contemporaneous  with  the 
massacres  and  the  brilliance  of  the  first  crusade. 
Each  of  these  possessions  has  its  distinct  history. 

B 's   passion    for   archaeology  has   stood    him    in 

good  stead,  physically  and  morally,  saving  him  from 
weariness  and  triviality,  and  preserving  his  breadth 
of  mind  and  refinement.  His  solicitude,  his  ever- 
present  ideal,  his  watchful  tact,  have  turned  him 
into  a  Parisian. 


FROM  TOULOUSE  TO  CETTE. 

ANOTHER  wide  plain,  as  between  Toulouse  and 
Bordeaux. 

First  maize,  then  vines.  The  maize  glistens  in 
the  sunshine,  a  deep  reddish  or  yellow  colour. 
Each  ear  is  in  a  dry  or  parched  sheath,  and  the 
effect  is  a  strange  one.  The  aspect  of  a  field  is 
far  more  granulous  than  that  of  a  wheat-field.  The 
vines  grow  along  the  ground  ;  there  are  no  props, 
for  the  plant  is  in  its  native  country,  and  looks  for 
no  support.  The  leaves  are  very  green,  and  full 
of  sap,  which  makes  them  beautiful  under  such  a 
sun. 

The  buildings  are  square ;  in  many  cases  there 
are  quadrangular  towers,  as  in  the  Italian  mills. 
Many  of  the  granges  are  open,  and  rest  upon  arches. 
On  all  sides  you  have  the  impression  of  a  dry 
climate,  and  of  life  in  the  open  air. 

The  towns  extend  right  and  left  on  the  hillsides, 
Carcassonne,  Castelnaudary,  Narbonne,  still  half  feudal 
arid  half  Roman.  Most  of  them  stand  on  eminences, 

85 


86  JOURNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

with  a  view  to  defence.  One  retains  its  ramparts 
and  its  circle  of  towers,  like  a  scene  from  Sicilian 
or  Spanish  opera.  They  are  tawny  and  bronzed, 
speaking  of  an  endless,  age-long  downpour  of  scorch- 
ing rays.  Eyes  accustomed  to  the  North  scarcely 
know  what  to  make  of  these  stones  planted  on  the 
rock. 

As  evening  comes  on,  the  bald  mountains,  undulat- 
ing on  either  hand,  and  the  old  embrowned  build- 
ings, are  full  of  grandeur  in  the  bright  purple  of 
the  setting  sun,  like  so  many  spectres.  On  the 
right,  behind  these  preliminary  mountains,  the 
Pyrenees  stand  out  like  white- robed  virgins. 


CETTE. 

I  CLIMBED  the  hill  of  Saint  Clair.  It  is  a  veritable 
southern  landscape ;  a  rugged  stretch  of  land,  strewn 
with  half-buried  boulders,  and  intersected  by  long 
dry  walls  of  piled  stones  ;  nothing  but  stone  and 
heaped  stones,  all  at  hazard  and  neglected.  Within 
the  enclosures  there  are  terraced  gardens,  with  the 
red  and  gold  foliage  of  a  vine,  or  the  heavy  in- 
dented fig-leaves  squatting  on  the  low  walls,  or 
crowding  pines,  which  emit  their  aromatic  odour 
under  the  burning  sun. 

Suddenly,  from  the  height  on  which  I  stand,  the 
glorious  azure  sea  unrolls  itself — a  soft  and  tender 
azure,  virginal  as  the  dawn.  The  mists  are  invisible, 
yet  mists  there  are,  though  so  delicately  transparent 
is  the  veil  that  it  can  only  be  detected  where  the 
sky-line  melts  into  the  horizon.  The  rising  sun 
pours  a  flood  of  rustling,  tremulous  gold  on  the 
blue  silk  of  the  motionless  water.  All  is  tender 
azure,  the  boundless  sea,  the  wide  expanse  of  heaven. 

87 


88  JOURNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

The  grey  boats  move  athwart  it  imperceptibly,  like 
sea-mews  in  the  distance. 

The  descent  is  by  a  long   and  tortuous  lane,  in 
which    the   piles   of    brown    and    ruddy   stones   are 
further  reddened  by  the  sun.     It  is  a  Calvary,  marked 
out   into   stations.     The   extreme   dryness   produces 
no  sense  of  repulsion.     The  long  lines  of  wall  seem 
to   cut    out    patches    of    brilliant    sky,   and   all   the 
instincts   of  the   artist   are   strong  within  us  as  we 
look.      In   the   distance   below,   the    country-side   is 
broken  up  by  long  high  ranges  of  undulating,  misty 
hills,  softened   off  in    the   background,  and,  though 
still    more   or   less    arid,   infinitely   beautiful.     Their 
grand  shapes,  bathed  in  air  and  light,  stretch  them- 
selves out  so  peacefully  and  magnificently !     Round 
their  base  the  marsh  of  Thau,  a  little  sea  left  behind 
by  the  ocean,  shines  like  a  mirror  of  polished  steel. 
Its  splendour  leaps  to  the  eye,  and  makes  a  contrast 
with  the   soft   aspect   of  the   mountains.     How   the 
nobility  of  beauty  is  borne  in   upon  one  here,  and 
what  an  earthly  Paradise  the  South   opens    up  for 
such  as  can  comprehend  it ! 

The  flowers  have  a  strange,  intoxicating  perfume  ; 
the  fruits  are  luscious,  and  the  enormous  grapes  are 
golden  in  hue  and  velvety  to  the  touch.  They  are 
so  abundant  that  the  poorest  child  in  the  streets 
has  as  many  as  he  can  carry.  Every  man  must 


CETTE  89 

have  his  vine,  as  the  Italians  used  to  say  in  the 
sixteenth  century — his  vine, 'and  pictures,  and  all 
the  arts  for  his  voluptuous  handmaids ! 

We  sat  -on  masses  of  rock,  by  a  cleft  half-way 
up  the  hillside.  I  was  alone  there  for  half  an  hour, 
and  experienced  the  most  keen  and  absolute  sensa- 
tion of  happiness  that  I  had  known  for  a  long 
time.  The  vast  ocean  in  front  was  divinely  blue, 
so  that  the  sky  was  all  but  white  by  comparison. 
That  sea  is  calm  as  Paradise ;  only  on  that  wide 
sparkling  sheet,  whereon  the  sun  shed  his  flaming 
glory,  there  lay  a  tiny  fretwork,  made  up  of  myriads 
of  almost  imperceptible  scales  of  gold,  as  it  were  a 
beautiful,  happy,  divine  leviathan,  cradled  in  azure. 
Two  or  three  streaks  of  paler  blue  marked  the 
sudden  steeps  of  the  ocean  bed ;  the  veined  sea 
and  sky  were  like  the  lustrous  marbled  valves  of 
a  pearly  shell. 

Nearer  at  hand  lies  the  harbour.  Some  thirty 
little  vessels  creep  slowly  inward  to  the  harbour- 
mouth  ;  the  three  jetties  extend  their  narrow,  black 
stages  in  sharp  relief;  the  lighthouse  stands  out 
clear  against  the  sky  ;  a  dark  old  fort  rises  from  a 
ridge  on  the  right.  These  well-defined  outlines,  this 
wonderful  contrast  of  clear  and  luminous  hues  with 
rough-hewn  shapes,  furnish  a  totally  unexpected 
pleasure.  The  sheltered  harbour  itself  glistens  like 


90  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

a  diamond  cup.  In  such  a  land  as  this,  it  is  easy  to 
understand  the  origin  of  painting. 

All  down  the  hillside  the  ruddy  paths  diverge 
and  wind  about.  Looking  backward,  one  beholds 
the  rough  scarp  of  the  tawny  arid  mountain  ;  and  in 
the  far  distance,  the  Pyrenean  chain,  half  blue,  half 
golden,  swims  in  its  pale  violet  haze  across  the  fresh 
and  motionless  azure. 

It  is  all  an  effect  of  climate ;  humanity  can  but 
reproduce  and  concentrate  the  nature  that  environs 
him.  You  can  readily  understand  that  men  with 
such  surroundings  cannot  have  the  same  soul  as  the 
Northern  races. 

As  we  enter  the  town  again,  there  is  an  air  of 
neglect  and  uncleanness.  The  first  streets  are  full 
of  warehouses ;  the  children  are  dirty  and  bare- 
footed. The  town  extends  along  its  canal  like  a 
petty  Venice;  like  Venice  it  is  built  upon  lagoons, 
between  a  vast  stretch  of  inland  sea  and  the  ocean. 
It  is  an  emporium  of  southern  wines,  with  tuns  and 
hogsheads  on  every  hand. 

The  grandest  spectacles  are  those  which  are  un- 
foreseen. What  a  vision  meets  the  sight  as  one 
arrives  by  night  in  this  unknown  city,  with  sea  and 
lake  half  defined  in  the  dubious  twilight ;  and  then, 


CETTE  91 

from  the  roof  of  the  diligence,  these  murky  canals, 
these  dark  and  silent  streets  with  here  and  there  a 
flickering  lamp,  the  harbour,  and,  beyond  it,  the 
vast,  immeasurable,  unbounded  blackness,  a  file  of 
ships  with  their  rigging  and  masts,  like  the  web  of 
a  monster  spider ;  in  the  midst  of  them  a  tug,  black 
and  grim,  puffing  slowly  past  with  raucous  breath, 
with  no  apparent  object,  showing  a  red  and  threaten- 
ing light,  like  the  one  red  eye  of  the  infernal  deity ; 
and,  above  it  all,  the  shrouded  squadron  of  the  silent 
stars ! 


FROM  CETTE  TO  MARSEILLES. 

FOR  the  first  few  leagues  the  line  passes  along  a 
narrow  girdle  of  sand,  between  the  great  lake  and  the 
sea.  The  water  advances  to  within  ten  feet  of  the 
wheels,  on  a  bottom  of  bright  sand.  It  is  of  a  clear 
brown  colour,  six  inches  in  depth,  and  is  covered 
with  dimples.  I  am  never  tired  of  looking  at  water. 

The  sea  is  blue — a  happy,  smiling  nymph — a  Venus 
undefiled.  The  sky  is  white,  with  sparkling  and 
streaming  light.  All  the  most  beautiful  notions  of 
the  Greeks  recur  to  the  mind — the  weddings  of  the 
gods;  their  limbs  of  marble  couched  among  the  reeds ; 
the  waves  kissing  the  feet  of  the  goddesses  with  their 
foam. 

The  slender,  quivering  tamarisks  begin  to  line  the 
route ;  on  the  horizon  one  sees  the  splendid  moun- 
tains in  the  violet  distance.  All  around  us  spring  the 
sterile  flowers,  children  of  the  sea  and  sand  ;  the  sea 
itself,  beneath  us  on  the  right,  is  like  a  vast  furrow  of 
pale  velvet.  Then  come  the  vines,  reaching  to  the 

water's   edge.     Lovely  and  fertile   is   the   well-tilled 
92 


FROM  CETTE  TO  MARSEILLES  93 

land,  which  yields  its  fruit  up  to  the  limits  of  the 
waves.  Those  wide  plains  are  magnificently  verdant ; 
no  plant  but  the  vine  could  grow  so  fresh  and  luxuri- 
antly under  such  a  sun.  The  black  grapes  hang  in 
clusters ;  the  husbandmen  with  their  movable  vats 
are  half  buried  in  the  foliage. 

The  country  rises  towards  Frontignan,  Lunel,  and 
Montpellier.  The  land  is  a  veritable  garden  of  vines 
intersected  by  almond  and  peach  groves,  and  every 
now  and  then  we  dash  past  a  pretty  little  country 
house.  .  .  .  What  a  land  of  vines  is  France!  No 
country  has  so  many,  or  has  them  so  good.  An 
attempt  was  made  to  transport  a  hundred  vineyard- 
men,  with  French  vines,  to  the  south  of  Russia ;  but 
the  flavour  could  not  survive.  .  .  .  Our  staple  is  bread 
and  wine ;  in  England  it  is  milk  and  flesh.  .  .  .  As- 
suredly, the  vine  goes  a  long  way  to  account  for  our 
temperament  and  our  character. 

As  we  approached  Nimes,  the  olives  come  into 
sight,  and  the  landscape  has  a  drier  and  whitened 
aspect.  The  rows  of  olive-trees  cover  it  with  their  pale 
and  gloomy  foliage.  There  is  a  certain  melancholy 
in  their  short,  stumpy,  stunted  appearance. 

The  country  falls  away  again,  and  we  are  in  the 
characteristic  Provencal  land.  First  we  have  the 
Crau,  a  wide  and  barren  plain,  strewn  with  boulders  ; 
then  broken  and  lumpy  mountains,  either  bare  or 


94  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

sparsely  clad  with  a  darkening  green,  low  growths  of 
stunted  pines,  heaths,  abundance  of  lichen  ;  all  parched 
by  a  fierce  sun ;  not  so  much  as  a  spring  or  a  streak 
of  water  ;  bare  masses  of  round,  whitish,  coagulated 
rocks,  of  which  the  mountains  are  composed.  The 
only  trees  are  in  the  sheltered  hollows,  or  on  the  lower 
slopes,  and  there  are  rows  of  puny  olives  and  almond- 
trees.  Yet  they  yield  good  produce,  in  spite  of  the 
risk  of  occasional  frost.  A  hectare  of  olives  is  worth 
five  thousand  francs. 

We  reach,  at  length,  the  lake  of  Berre,  which  is  quite 
an  inland  sea.  I  cannot  say  how  many  leagues  it 
extends,  but  we  had  it  on  our  right  for  more  than 
half-an-hour.  I  should  never  weary  of  describing  this 
wonderful  blue  stretch  of  motionless  water,  in  its 
white  mountain  basin. 

There  was  a  black  tunnel,  more  than  three  miles 
long,  and  then,  on  a  sudden,  the  open  sea.  It  was 
Marseilles  and  its  rocky  coast.  I  could  not  refrain 
from  an  exclamation  at  its  beauty.  It  was  like  an 
immense  lake,  unlimited  towards  the  right,  sparkling 
and  peaceful ;  and  its  brilliant  hue  had  all  the  delicacy 
of  a  lovely  violet  or  full-blown  periwinkle.  The  out- 
stretched mountains  seemed  to  be  clad  with  angelic 
splendour,  so  indwelling  was  their  light,  so  like  a 
garment  was  that  light  upon  them,  girdled  round  with 
air  and  distance.  The  richest  beauties  of  an  exotic, 


FROM  CETTE  TO  MARSEILLES  95 

the  pearly  veins  of  an  orchid,  the  pale  velvet  fringing 
the  wings  of  a  butterfly,  is  not  more  soft  and  brilliant. 
To  find  a  fit  comparison,  one  must  look  amongst  the 
finest  productions  of  art  and  nature ;  silken  folds 
gleaming  with  light,  embroideries  upon  a  watered  silk, 
carmine  cheeks  glowing  behind  a  veil ;  and  as  for  that 
sun  in  its  splendour,  pouring  from  its  focus  a  stream 
of  gold  across  the  sea,  nothing  on  earth  could  inter- 
pret or  picture  it. 


MARSEILLES. 

I  SAW  my  friend  P —  -  in  the  evening,  and  his 
handsome,  admirable  wife.  They  have  been  living 
here  four  years. 

Their  impression  is  that  the  Marseillais  are  a  rude 
folk.  The  first  time  they  went  to  the  public  gardens, 
they  mistook  all  the  ladies  for  lorettes.  So  did  I, 
yesterday.  They  parade,  show  themselves  off,  and 
strike  attitudes.  Madame  P —  -  tells  me  that  she 
has  met  nearly  all  the  carriage  folk  at  the  Receiver- 
General's,  and  at  other  houses,  and  that  she  does  not 
know  one  woman  of  culture.  They  are  extravagant 
in  dress  and  in  their  parties  ;  they  all  run  into  debt. 
The  young  men  are  all  self-indulgent ;  they  have 
little  or  no  education ;  they  dine  freely,  spend  their 
evenings  at  the  club,  and  talk  frankly,  in  the  presence 
of  ladies,  of  the  women  they  meet  outside,  without 
the  slightest  idea  of  shocking  them.  P—  -  assures 
me  that  nearly  all  the  merchants  have  two  establish- 
ments. They  keep  their  mistresses  in  very  good 

style.     Their   life   is   one   round   of  stock-exchange, 

96 


MARSEILLES  97 

brokerage,  deep  speculation,  and  sensual  enjoyment. 
Incessant  business  swallows  up  everything  else.  They 
buy  ten  thousand  hides,  five  thousand  kilos  of  pepper, 
and  then  proceed  to  sell  them  again. 

There  are  only  a  dozen  students  in  philosophy, 
though  there  are  nine  hundred  students  in  college, 
about  two  hundred  and  fifty  of  them  being  in  the 

commercial    school.      P has   no   private   pupils, 

for  he  is  the  Professor  of  Philosophy. 

Toulon  is  ten  times  better  than  Marseilles,  because 
•of  the  naval  officers,  who  are  well-bred,  travelled  men. 
Here  all  is  sacrificed  to  enjoyment.  A  few  retired 
magistrates  devote  themselves  to  the  archaeology  of 
the  neighbourhood. 

There  are  a  vast  number  of  religious  houses.  We 
counted  thirty  large  convents  in  the  directory.  Most 
of  the  young  people,  and  all  the  rich,  are  educated 
there.  At  Toulouse,  M.  B reckoned  that  two- 
thirds  of  the  French  boys  and  girls  are  brought  up  by 
the  priests. 

Here,  as  elsewhere  in  the  South,  piety  is  all  external. 
There  was  recently  a  procession  to  Notre  Dame  de  la 
Garde.  All  the  relics  in  the  town  were  brought 
together ;  they  are  to  remain  here  a  year,  and  then 
they  will  be  carried  back.  All  the  Penitent  Brothers, 
the  town  clergy,  the  lay-brothers,  in  cassock  and  cowl, 
with  their  banners,  candles,  and  what  not,  followed  in 

G 


98  JOURNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

long  files.  Doves  were  tied  to  the  crosses,  with  their 
wings  bound,  but  free  to  move  their  heads.  For  a 

moment,  P said,  there  was  a  disposition  to  accept 

the  moving  necks  as  a  miracle ;  but  a  wag  remarked 
— "  They  will  all  have  roast  pigeon  to-night " ;  and  the 
jest  spread  rapidly  through  the  crowd. 

Everyone  was  smartly  dressed ;  they  gossipedr 
feasted,  and  paraded.  At  church  they  were  perfectly 
at  their  ease.  They  attended,  and  followed  the 
service,  but  on  condition  that  it  should  be  taken  as  an 
amusement.  Throughout  the  South  religion  is  an 
opera,  addressed  to  the  eye  and  the  ear.  See  what 
Madame  d'Aulnoy  says  in  1680  of  the  churches  in 
Spain,  with  their  playing  fountains,  aviaries,  orange- 
trees,  pictures,  and  the  like. 

Marseilles  is  a  great,  an  enormous  city,  with  250,000 
inhabitants  ;  we  are  told  that  it  will  have  half  a 
million  when  the  Suez  Canal  is  finished.  It  grows 
daily ;  there  is  building  and  excavation  everywhere. 
The  hillsides  are  levelled ;  the  docks  are  increased  in 
number.  I  saw  it  four  years  ago,  and  scarcely  recog- 
nise it.  The  transformation  is  like  that  of  Paris. 
There  are  enormous  mansions,  with  abundance  of 
carving,  all  new  and  magnificent,  with  seven  storeys, 
vaster  and  more  splendid  than  in  Paris.  I  have 
never  seen  the  like  out  of  London. 

A  canal  has  been  made  at  a  cost  of  forty  millions 


MARSEILLES  99 

to  bring  in  the  waters  of  the  Durance.  All  Marseilles 
is  supplied  by  it,  and  it  fertilises  the  plains  through 
which  it  runs.  It  furnishes  enough  water  to  give  each 
inhabitant  three  hundred  litres  a  day — even  when  the 
half  million  is  reached.  It  is  brought  into  the  houses, 
and  flows  in  the  gutters.  Many  streets  are  watered 
by  it  every  day. 

The  Joliette  harbour  is  magnificent,  and  the  Port 
Napoleon  is  now  being  built.  There  are  alleys  of 
plane-trees  throughout.  I  saw  a  large  number  of  new 
country  houses,  along  the  banks,  and  on  every 
eminence.  Ten  out  of  the  forty  thousand  hectares  of 
the  Crau  have  been  irrigated.  Thanks  to  the  Treaty 
of  Commerce  with  England,  the  wines  of  Herault 
were  in  such  demand  that  the  year's  crop  paid  50 
per  cent,  on  the  capital  invested  in  them. 

It  must  be  admitted  that  in  this  country  there  has 
been  a  sudden  rise  of  public  prosperity,  which  can 
only  be  compared  with  that  of  the  Renaissance,  or  of 
the  age  of  Colbert.  This  year,  three  thousand  kilo- 
metres of  railway  have  been  built.  The  Emperor 
understands  France  and  his  generation  better  than 
any  of  his  predecessors. 

I  have  had  two  drives,  one  to  the  Catalans,  and  the 
other  to  the  Joliette  pier.  This  pier  is  constructed  on 
a  mass  of  enormous  blocks,  as  big  as  a  room,  con- 
glomerates of  stones  and  cement,  which  were  sunk 


100  JOURNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

freely,  one  upon  another,  so  as  to  break  the  force  of 
the  waves  by  their  irregular  obstacle. 

There  is  the  old  sensation  in  my  soul.  When  I 
analyse  it  I  discover  that  the  cause  of  this  extreme 
pleasure,  this  wholesome  and  quiet  enjoyment,  is  the 
simplicity  and  the  grandeur  of  the  landscape.  Like 
the  Greek  tragedy  and  sculpture,  it  is  made  up  of  two 
or  three  things,  and  no  more.  A  stretch  of  violet  and 
soft-coloured  rocks  on  the  right ;  in  front  of  me 
another  stretch,  rough  and  dark  in  contrast  with  the 
setting  sun ;  a  level  sea,  bristling  with  tiny  uniform 
ripples  ;  a  sapphire  sky — the  soul  takes  it  in  at  once, 
and  every  element  is  grand. 

The  long  line  of  the  Lazaret  rocks  extends  like 
a  sharp,  rough,  broken  spine,  with  points  and  angles 
as  clear  as  a  piece  of  architecture,  black  in  the  purple 
flame  which  kindles  the  out-lying  mist,  At  my 
feet  the  blue  waves  sport  and  display  themselves 
like  fishes,  rejoicing  in  the  last  rays  of  the  sun. 

But  my  best  drive  was  that  which  I  took  yester- 
day morning,  with  P ,  to  Redon.  Not  the  first 

part  of  it.  He  wished  to  show  me  the  old  town  of 
Marseilles,  the  suburban  houses,  the  "  cabanons,"  the 
"  grilladous."  It  was  comical,  yet  frightful.  The 
whole  of  Marseilles  and  its  environs  is  made  up  of 
excrescences — bare,  rough,  jagged,  constructed  of  the 
light-coloured,  sharp-edged,  cracking  and  crumbling 


MARSEILLES  IOI 

stone,  a  jumble  of  walls  and  little  villas  blistered 
by  the  sun.  It  is  like  a  patch  of  leprosy  on  the 
town  ;  nothing  could  be  more  ugly  and  wearisome. 
You  might  imagine  that  you  were  gazing  over  a 
bed  of  broken  bottles,  stuck  thick  with  potsherds. 
There  are  all  sorts  of  ramshackle  erections,  with 
linen  hung  up  to  dry,  pot-houses,  walls  of  loose 
stones  without  mortar,  and  now  and  then  a  wretched 
olive-tree.  These  good  folk  are  content  with  sun 
and  air ;  they  do  not  ask  for  trees. 

As  one  drives  on,  however,  gardens  and  pine- 
trees  make  their  appearance.  M.  Talabot  has 
had  600,000  cartloads  of  soil  brought  over 
from  Sicily,  to  cover  a  hill  slope  which  he  is  cultivat- 
ing. Waste  water  from  the  canal  provides  him  with 
a  good  cascade.  We  sat  on  the  overhanging  rocks, 
which  are  broken  to  suit  the  owner's  taste,  and  of 
course  white ;  but  it  is  the  white  of  marble,  in 
harmony  with  the  sun.  A  succulent  plant  of  some 
sort  grows  in  the  crevices,  and  the  bees  were  humming 
all  around.  The  sea  laps  the  beach,  or  softly  drags 
the  rounded  shingle.  It  is  so  transparent,  you  can 
see  to  a  depth  of  three  feet ;  the  crystal  waters  of 
the  Pyrenees  are  not  more  clear.  The  ripples  in  the 
water  make  a  kind  of  golden  trellis  in  the  sunshine, 
and  under  this  heaving  topaz  the  level  sand  and 
green-brown  sea-weeds  have  a  lovely  appearance. 


IO2  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

I  cannot  describe  the  beauty  of  that  illimitable 
azure,  which  sinks  into  the  distance  on  every  side. 
What  a  contrast  to  the  dangerous  and  sinister  mid- 
ocean  !  This  sea  is  a  beautiful  and  happy  girl, 
dressed  in  her  new  gown  of  glistening  silk.  It  is 
blue  upon  blue,  glowing  deep  and  far  without  an 
horizon.  By  way  of  contrast  the  long  band  of 
Lazaret  rocks  and  the  Chateau  d'lf  are  exquisite 
in  their  whiteness.  White  and  blue  are  the  virgin 
colours.  How  can  one  convey  the  idea  of  a  colour  ? 
how  show  in  words  that  white  and  blue  are 
things  essentially  divine?  In  the  whole  landscape 
there  is  nothing  but  this.  All  Nature  is  reduced  to 
it — a  chalice  of  white  marble,  brimming  with  azure. 

Far  to  the  right  and  the  left,  the  high  cleft  rocks, 
broken  with  ravines,  draw  the  humid  air  about  them, 
and  seem  to  slumber  beneath  a  veil. 

We  bathed  in  the  buoyant  sea,  on  a  bottom  of 
level  sand.  The  free  movement  of  the  limbs  in  the 
water  made  one  think  of  the  joys  of  the  ancients. 
The  sun  was  high  and  unclouded,  but  his  heat  was 
tempered  by  the  breeze  and  the  cool  water.  Swim- 
ming on  my  back,  I  saw  the  coast-line,  the  sands, 
the  quivering  tamarisks,  the  pinewoods  breathing 
out  their  aroma  in  the  heat ;  the  blue  waves  rocked 
me  in  my  cradle ;  I  saw  the  rippling  silver  fringe  with 
which  they  line  the  shore,  the  keen  rays,  the  impor- 


MARSEILLES  IO3 

tunate  vigour,  the  joyous  calm  of  the  magnificent  sun. 
How  he  triumphs  above  us  all !  How  he  showers 
his  myriad  darts  over  this  immeasurable  tract !  How 
these  waves  cast  back  his  image,  sparkling  and 
shuddering  under  the  rain  of  fire !  Behold  the 
Nereids  and  Apollo !  The  Galatea  whom  Raphael 
saw  is  indisputably  true  ;  the  horns  of  the  Tritons 
resound  in  our  ears.  And  those  fair  locks,  those 
white  bodies  washed  in  the  spray,  would  have  shown 
up  well  against  the  azure. 

We  entered  a  seaside  hotel,  and  rested  for  an 
hour,  stretched  at  ease  on  the  terrace.  ...  In  the 
distance,  and  where  the  sea-weeds  rise  to  the  surface, 
the  turquoise  and  sapphire  blue  turns  to  indigo. 
One  rarely  sees  a  colour  so  deep  and  solid,  an  effect 
so  full  and  so  strong,  such  a  rich  and  powerful 
contrast  between  the  clear  white  of  the  sharp-edged 
rocks  and  the  deep  blue  which  surrounds  them. 
Three  months  of  life  on  this  coast  would  chase  away 
all  your  sadness. 

In  the  evening  P took    me  to  see   the   old 

quarter  along  the  Canebiere.  It  is  the  poor  quarter,  the 
quarter  of  the  loose  women  and  the  sailors.  There 
are  a  score  of  sloping  streets,  on  a  sort  of  quarried 
hillside,  with  muddy  drains  which  splash  you  as 
you  pass ;  and  every  street  has  twenty  houses  of 


IO4  JOURNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

ill  fame.  A  pungent  concentrated  odour  rises  from 
heaps  of  filth ;  strange  glimmers  are  cast  upon  the 
darkness  of  the  close-built  lanes.  On  either  side, 
from  every  house,  women  with  their  hair  let  down, 
often  with  their  necks  and  shoulders  exposed,  in 
gaudy  attire,  so  far  as  it  goes,  sit  chattering  upon 
their  steps,  challenge  you,  hum  tunes,  or  shout 
indecent  words.  Some  of  them  are  pretty,  but  most 
are  coarse  and  flaunting.  Crowds  of  working-men 
and  sailors  push  and  jostle  all  whom  they  meet. 
In  the  best  hall  in  the  place  there  is  drinking,  and 
smoking,  and  noise  ;  it  is  a  low  and  blackguardly 
pandemonium.  I  have  seen  nothing  worse,  except 
a  few  streets  in  Liverpool.  But  here,  instead  of  a 
resigned  or  brutish  poverty,  you  find  the  southern 
violence  and  energy,  the  vehement  craving  for 
enjoyment,  the  reaction  of  men  who  have  been 
caged  between-decks  for  three  or  six  months.  A 
few  deserted,  silent  streets,  without  an  open  door, 
with  a  single  flickering  lamp  at  one  end,  and 
gutters  full  of  creeping  mire,  are  tomb-like  in  their 
livid  shade  and  absence  of  movement.  You  might 
take  them  for  a  horrid  picture,  drawn  by  Dore,  of 
the  morrow  of  a  mediaeval  plague. 

I  saw  this  quarter  again  by  daylight.  It  is  a  maze 
of  lanes,  inaccessible  for  carriages,  which  rise  by 
irregular  steps.  Poultry  and  goats  roam  about  them 


MARSEILLES  10$ 

at  liberty.  The  population,  especially  the  women, 
sit  at  their  doors,  living  a  life  in  the  open  air, 
without  any  regard  for  cleanliness.  An  indescribable, 
pungent  odour  pervades  every  corner.  Nowadays 
there  are  fountains  and  watercourses ;  what  must 
it  have  been  when  the  town  was  not  supplied  with 
water?  Even  now,  the  more  secluded  spots  are 
infected.  The  water  in  the  Canebiere  is  of  an 
extraordinary  colour;  it  is  a  reservoir  of  diluted 
filth. 

I  sat  in  an  open  space  and  took  mental  notes,  so 
as  to  get  a  clear  idea  of  the  type,  especially  of  the 
lower  sort  of  girls.  They  are  short  and  thick-set — in 
some  cases  there  was  not  more  than  a  foot  between 
the  waist  and  the  back  hair.  They  walk  squarely 
and  flat-footed.  They  have  full  breasts,  and  their 
necks  are  thick  and  short.  The  characteristic  feature 
is  the  square  Italian  chin,  clear-cut  like  that  of  the 
ancients,  or  that  of  Napoleon,  standing  well  out  from 
the  neck,  and  set  in  strong  muscles.  The  face  is 
wide,  the  eyebrows  easily  knit,  the  brow  somewhat 
high,  the  hair  thick  and  close,  the  expression  decided 
and  menacing.  You  might  take  them  for  the 
daughters  of  Greek  porters,  and  they  are  overflowing 

with   energy.     According   to    Madame    P ,   their 

boldness  is  remarkable.  Even  the  youngest  of  them 
stare  a  lady  who  happens  to  be  passing  full  in  the 


IO6  JOURNEYS    THROUGH  FRANCE 

face,  appraising  and  criticising  her  without  reserve. 
She  complains  of  the  rudeness  of  the  people  generally, 
even  of  well-dressed  men,  who  stare  at  and  ogle  a 
woman — even  accost  and  follow  her — or  block  the 
pavement,  forcing  her  into  the  gutter. 

It  is  dear  living  here.  My  cab-driver  tells  me 
that  a  workman's  unfurnished  room,  under  the  roof, 
costs  him  fifteen  francs  a  month ;  but  wages  are  fairly 
high.  For  instance,  a  carpenter  earns  seven  francs  a 
day;  a  mason  four  francs  and  a  half;  a  foreman 
porter  from  thirty  to  fifty  francs;  a  common  porter 
with  a  badge,  twelve  francs.  These,  of  course,  are 
men  with  good  characters.  There  are  some  fifteen  or 
eighteen  hundred  persons  who  form  the  popular 
aristocracy.  In  1848  they  saved  the  city  from  being 
sacked  by  the  Piedmontese  workmen  and  the  roughs 
who  abound  amongst  them,  having  established  a 
wholesome  fear  of  their  fists.  A  foreman  porter, 
elected  to  the  National  Assembly  in  1848,  resigned 
his  seat  after  three  months,  declaring  that  he  would 
have  no  more  to  do  with  the  spouters  and  intriguers 
who,  according  to  him,  lorded  it  in  the  Assembly. 


FROM    MARSEILLES    TO    LYONS. 

AT  first,  olives ;  then  mulberries,  conspicuously  green 
and  attractive,  overshadowing-  the  vines. 

Presently,  the  Rhone,  covered  with  mist  and  fog, 
walled  in  by  bare  and  broken  mountains,  terribly 
ugly  and  heavy,  without  character  or  expression. 
They  are  the  beginning  of  the  Cevennes,  too  near 
to  borrow  a  blue  from  the  distance.  One  can  dis- 
tinguish miserable  greenish  patches,  the  beds  of 
former  torrents. 

On  the  sandy  plain,  furrowed  by  inundations  of 
the  Rhone,  gardens  and  osier-beds  do  their  best  to 
flourish.  The  mountains,  after  a  time,  become  a  trifle 
less  bare  ;  the  vine,  of  the  famous  Hermitage  growth, 
propped  against  low  walls,  begins  to  feather  over  the 
tops.  On  the  right  are  the  Dauphine  Alps,  serrated, 
but  not  unlike  a  row  of  slate-coloured  clouds. 

The  valley  is  too  narrow,  too  much  shut  in,  too 
much  at  the  mercy  of  deluges  and  the  flooding 
stream.  Clouds  began  to  thicken  soon  after  we 

107 


108  JOURNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

reached  Tarascon ;  the  sky  was  flecked  with  a  grey 
and  gloomy  mist ;  the  whole  landscape  changed  to 
gloom  ;  the  Cevennes  looked  desolate  and  repelling. 
How  lovely  is  the  South  by  comparison  with  this ! 
I  mean  the  true  South — that  of  Marseilles  and  of 
Italy — not  that  of  Languedoc  and  Toulouse. 

At  length  came  Lyons,  with  its  high  and  narrow 
streets  in  a  fog.  In  the  hotel  where  I  put  up,  one 
could  scarcely  see  to  read  at  mid-day. 

Lyons  is  depressing ;  it  rains  almost  every  day, 
and  the  sky  is  always  veiled.  My  friends  tell  me 
that  this  is  quite  the  rule.  The  town  is  at  the  con- 
fluence of  two  rivers,  close  to  a  mountain  corridor, 
and  looking  towards  the  south.  Hence  the  constant 
vapours. 

High  houses,  with  a  great  number  of  regular  win- 
dows in  narrow  streets,  the  broad,  vehement,  restless 
Rhone,  an  ill-lighted  city,  so  that  the  wide  Place 
Bellecour  is  but  dotted  by  the  feeble  gaslights,  which 
flicker  in  the  dark — all  this  in  grim  contrast  with  the 
glare  and  gaiety  of  Marseilles.  Of  all  the  towns  of 
France  which  I  know,  there  is  none  which  shows  a 
closer  resemblance  to  London. 

I  visited  the  Croix  Rousse.     I  never  saw  a  steeper 
hill  in  any  town.     You  have  to  walk  in  zigzags,  as 
in  mountain-climbing.     Descending   the   Rue    de   la 


FROM  MARSEILLES  TO  LYONS  1 09 

grande  Cote,  it  is  necessary  to  take  very  short  steps, 
and  to  hold  the  body  well  back. 

There  are  monstrous  mills,  gloomy  and  monoton- 
ous as  barracks,  from  which  the  noise  made  by  the 
mill  hands  is  constantly  heard.  As  a  rule,  employers 
and  workmen  are  barely  in  touch ;  the  men  do  their 
work  at  home.  The  raw  material  is  brought  to  them, 
and  they  undertake  to  bring  the  woven  silk  at  a  given 
date.  They  are  free  and  independent,  making  bar- 
gains on  their  own  account,  and  competing  amongst 
each  other.  The  employer  is  not  like  our  friends  of 
Senones  and  Allevard,  with  a  nursery  of  men  whom 
it  behoves  him  to  look  after  in  his  own  interests.1 
There  is  no  accumulation  of  stock ;  as  soon  as  orders 
fall  off,  the  workman  starves.  His  attitude  towards 
his  employer  is  hostile ;  when  two  men  take  to  bar- 
gaining, the  only  question  is  which  of  the  two  will 
outwit  the  other.  Bad  blood  is  the  consequence. 
There  were  insurrections  in  1831  and  1835.  There 
is  a  garrison  here  of  30,0x30  men. 

Moreover,  there  is  competition  from  England, 
which  does  its  best  to  be  a  nursery  of  artisans,  and 


was  written  in  1863.  A  great  improvement  in  the 
relation  of  capital  and  labour  has  taken  place  within  the  last 
twenty  years,  owing  to  the  efforts  of  such  men  as  Mangini  and 
Aynard. 


1 10  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

from  Switzerland,  which  works  cheaply.  Here  a 
workman  earns  from  a  shilling  to  five  shillings,  an 
average  of  two  shillings  and  sixpence.  The  silk  is 
brought  to  them  ;  they  steal  a  little  of  it,  and  damp 
the  rest  to  make  up  the  weight.  There  are  as  many 
as  two  hundred  prosecutions  for  this  in  a  year. 
The  middlemen  between  the  employers  and  the 
workmen  often  claim  the  daughters  of  the  latter 
as  the  price  of  their  favour. 

I  went  into  the  workroom  of  a  silk-weaver  in 
order  to  ask  my  way.  He  was  asleep  over  his  work. 
It  was  a  wretched,  lean,  sallow  face,  with  a  black 
tuft  of  beard,  and  washed-out  eyes.  Many  of  these 
workmen  have  to  ply  their  task  in  unhealthy  attitudes. 
They  save  nothing,  and  the  intervals  of  idleness  are 
terrible. 

Seeing  those  enormous  flights  of  steps,  those 
gloomy  streets  of  the  Croix  Rousse,  that  mechanic 
life,  full  of  painful  anxieties,  one  remembers  that  the 
reason  of  it  all  is  that  our  wives  may  wear  silk 
dresses.  So  much  misery  for  so  scanty  a  joy !  This 
is  what  makes  Socialists.  On  the  other  hand,  it  is 
to  be  remembered  that  the  laws  which  regulate 
work  are  unchangeable ;  that  if  you  raise  wages  and 
demand  advances  when  there  is  no  work,  subject- 
ing those  who  are  rich  to  legislative  restraint,  then 
capital  will  be  withdrawn,  and  will  take  to  itself  wings. 


FROM  MARSEILLES  TO  LYONS  III 

English  workmen  know  that  abundant  capital,  under 
competitive  conditions,  leads  to  an  increase  of  wages, 
and  that  many  rich  mean  fewer  poor.  But  as  soon 
as  rich  men  multiply,  their  wives  must  have  silk 
dresses,  and  each  of  them  wants  the  finest.  Hence 
such  places  as  Croix  Rousse. 

Heinrich,  a  professor  at  Lyons,  says  that  class 
animosity  has  been  diminishing  for  twenty  years 
past ;  that  mutual  aid  societies  have  been  founded ; 
that  in  the  country  patriarchal  manufactories,  like  that 
at  Mulhouse,  have  been  established ;  and  that  the 
grievances  of  labour  have  decreased. 

He  tells  me  that  in  this  town  there  is  only  a  small 
population  of  superior  birth  and  breeding.  They 
are  exclusive  and  insignificant,  seeing  nobody,  and 
spending  the  summer  at  Beaujolais.  There  are  many 
who  have  made  large  fortunes  in  trade,  some  of  them 
the  grandchildren  or  great-grandchildren  of  weavers. 
Now  these  quickly  -  made  fortunes  are  more  un- 
common. Society  is  for  the  most  part  somewhat  ex- 
clusive. There  are  small  groups,  to  which  admission 
is  not  easy,  but  when  you  are  admitted  you  become 
intimate. 

There  are  two  hundred  and  fifty  students  at  the 
winter  course  of  the  Faculte,  and  about  forty  in 
summer.  Townsfolk  and  even  the  magistrates  come 
for  amusement,  but  nobody  takes  notes  or  genuinely 


112  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

studies.  Heinrich  came  from  Germany,  where  he 
had  experience  of  learned  and  substantial  courses 
of  lectures,  such  as  that  of  the  Professor  of  Eccles- 
iastical History  at  Munich,  who  lectures  every 
morning,  and  takes  two  years  to  exhaust  his  subject. 
But  this  course  is  academic,  and,  as  the  students  pay 
fees,  they  take  care  to  bring  away  full  note-books, 
like  our  students  at  the  School  of  Medicine  and  the 
Polytechnic  School. 

Here  also  there  is  a  vast  number  of  convents  and 
religious  houses.  You  cannot  cross  a  street  without 

meeting  a  priest  or  a  nun.     D says  that  mysticism 

is  natural  to  the  Lyonnais ;  we  have  illustrations  in 
Ballanche,  Ampere,  Laprade.  This  holds  good  for  the 
working  classes  also ;  they  are  Lollards  by  constitu- 
tion, mood,  climate,  resignation  and  melancholy. 

There  has  been  rain  for  several  days,  sometimes  a 
downpour  for  six  hours  at  a  time.  To-day  the  Rhone 
is  swollen  and  muddy.  It  is  quite  formidable  to  look 
at,  with  its  big  waves  which  dash  their  foam  against 
the  trees.  It  seems  that  they  often  have  such  weather 
here. 

It  is  not  a  well-favoured  population.  Goitres 
abound.  The  young  officers  tell  me  that  the  hair 
and  the  teeth  fall  early. 

The  sub-lieutenant  who  helped  me  in  the  gymnastic 


FROM  MARSEILLES    TO  L  YONS  1 1 3 

inspection  pressed  me  to  dine  at  the  boarding-house 
of  the  lieutenants  and  sub-lieutenants.  They  do  not 
fare  badly  ;  it  reminded  me  of  our  boarding-houses 
at  Poitiers  and  Nevers.  They  have  a  narrow  oblong 
hall,  reached  by  a  damp  and  gloomy  staircase,  and 
it  has  a  single  gas  jet. 

The  young  officers  complain  of  their  hard  lot, 
though  they  have  thirty  francs  a  month  as  extra 
pay.  It.  costs  so  much  to  live  here  !  Without  an 
allowance  from  home,  they  could  not  go  to  the  cafe, 
or  afford  themselves  any  amusement.  And  you  will 
find  them  at  the  cafe  for  a  good  half  of  the  day. 
Government  does  what  it  can.  Soldiers  pay  no  toll 
at  the  bridges,  they  get  their  theatre  tickets  at  half- 
price,  and  their  railway  tickets  at  a  quarter  of  the 
regular  price.  Officers  have  a  month's  furlough  every 
year,  and  from  three  to  six  months  with  their  families 
every  other  year.  They  have  on  an  average  six  years 
in  each  grade,  but  sometimes  ten  or  twelve  years 
as  captain.  My  sub-lieutenant  has  waited  five  years 
for  promotion,  and  is  spoiling  for  a  campaign  in 
Poland. 

No  doubt  the  life  has  its  drawbacks.  Some  of 
them  are  lieutenants  at  thirty-five  or  thirty-eight. 
I  was  told  that  one  or  two  were  in  difficulties  with 
their  landlord,  and  certainly  twenty-five  francs  a 
month  is  too  much  to  pay  for  a  single  room — there 

H 


114  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

is  no  margin  for  amusements.  A  colonel's  income 
is  about  6000  francs. 

Many  of  these  officers  are  coarse  and  rough ;  re- 
finement and  elegance  are  not  encouraged  by  their 
mode  of  life.  They  are  loud,  boisterous,  red-faced 
men,  and  their  jests  are  not  good  to  listen  to.  I 
took  stock  of  them  twice,  for  an  hour  together,  in 
the  cafe\  They  kill  time  as  they  best  can,  eating, 
playing  dominoes,  looking  straight  before  them, 
leaning  on  their  elbows,  talking  shop,  reading  stale 
news.  My  companion  learns  the  oboe  for  some- 
thing to  do,  but  declares  that  he  will  never  have 
the  wind  for  it.  They  are  in  barracks  every 
morning  up  to  eleven  o'clock.  Not  one  of  them 
has  the  courage  to  work,  or  to  study  on  his  own 
account ;  few  are  bold  enough  to  mix  in  society. 
They  are  bored,  they  eat  and  drink,  they  put  up 
with  a  life  of  solitude. 

Their  only  consolation  is  that  their  neat,  well- 
braced  tunic  and  epaulettes  earn  for  them  a  certain 
amount  of  consideration.  The  State  can  do  no 
more  for  them :  the  expenditure  on  the  army  is 
already  enormous.  And  it  is  clear  that  everybody 
cannot  be  a  colonel.  Here  again  we  have  the 
characteristic  feature  of  democracy — the  struggle  for 
life,  and  devil  take  the  hindmost ! 

I  was   taken  to  the  barracks.     The   beds   in   the 


FROM  MARSEILLES   TO   LYONS  11$ 

dormitories  are  barely  eighteen  inches  apart.  Their 
kits  are  on  a  shelf  above,  and  their  guns  upright 
against  the  wall.  Each  soldier  has  his  blanket, 
changed  once  a  month,  and  no  other  bedclothes. 
There  is  not  enough  air ;  it  is  like  the  prison  at 
Poissy.  They  are  their  own  cooks  and  maids-of- 
all-work.  Half  the  price  of  their  food  is  allowed 
to  them,  so  that  a  soldier  costs  the  State  seven 
sous  a  day,  in  addition  to  his  pay  and  his  bread. 
His  aggregate  personal  cost  is  365  francs  a  year. 
It  has  been  no  easy  problem  to  reduce  the  cost 
of  400,000  men  to  the  lowest  possible  figure. 

They  have  their  school ;  almost  all  of  them  learn 
to  read,  write,  and  reckon ;  and  there  is  more 
advanced  teaching  for  the  lower  grades  of  officers. 
This  is  as  it  should  be ;  our  democracy  has  its 
good  points,  though  the  craze  for  regulation  and 
system  is  mischievous.  The  schoolmaster  admits 
that  the  men  are  too  much  worried,  and  crammed 
with  technical  terms.  So  it  is  at  Saint-Cyr,  at  the 
Polytechnic  School,  and  in  the  military  college.  The 
universal  outcome  of  competition  is  a  Code. 


My  companion  is  very  cheery  and  obliging,  and 
ready  to  take  me  everywhere.  The  churches  of 
Lyons  are  ugly,  the  cathedral  commonplace. 


Il6  JOURNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

I  took  a  trip  on  a  river  steamboat.  Lyons  is  built 
on  wet  rocks,  and  is  all  barracks  and  mills. 

The  school  is  wretchedly  dirty.  Both  hotels  and 
private  houses  are  distinguished  by  their  damp  and 
narrow  passages.  There  are  one  or  two  fine  streets, 
like  the  Rue  de  ITmperatrice.  A  good  public  garden 
in  the  English  style,  with  a  lake,  has  been  laid  out 
on  the  left  bank  of  the  Rhone. 

There  is  nothing  to  do  here,  except  to  make 
money.  The  merchants  spend  their  evenings  at 
their  club,  or  with  a  mistress  when  they  are  supposed 
to  be  at  their  club.  Not  one  of  these  lorettes 
has  a  carriage ;  but  they  are  treated  daintily,  and 
kept  under  lock  and  key.  I  was  told  by  the 
officers  that  Lyons  was  one  of  the  worst-managed 
towns  of  France.  The  working-classes  furnish  plenty 
of  recruits. 

I  see  that  there  may  be  one  fault  common  to 
all  my  impressions — they  are  pessimistic.  It  might 
be  better  to  see  only  the  bright  side,  like  Schiller 
and  Goethe,  tacitly  contrasting  our  society  with  that 
of  savages.  It  would  be  more  encouraging  and 
elevating. 


FROM  LYONS  TO  BESANfON. 

THERE  has  been  excessive  rain.  All  the  rivers  are 
either  over  their  banks  or  up  to  the  brim.  The  old 
idea  returns  to  me,  which  formed  itself  in  my  mind 
after  my  visit  to  Hyeres.  Lyons  is  certainly  the 
border  town  between  the  dry  and  the  wet  country 
— the  most  strangely  marked  contrast  in  nature. 
But  to-day,  at  any  rate,  I  have  another  sort  of 
impression  ;  the  wet  land  makes  me  sad. 

Little  by  little  I  slip  back  into  the  earlier  mood. 
Those  delicate  living  greens,  those  faint  hues  in 
the  far-off  landscape,  so  pale  and  diluted ;  that 
row  of  poplars,  resigned  and  melancholy  guardians 
of  the  land;  the  drenched  impervious  woods  in  the 
foreground,  renew  their  significance  in  my  mind. 
The  earth  has  drunk :  it  can  never  be  anything 
but  green.  Yet  its  beauty  is  that  of  a  face  streaming 
with  tears. 

The  South  bestows  new  health  upon  the  mind ; 
it  is  a  strong  and  persistent  tonic  for  the  nerves. 
The  very  simplicity  of  sea  and  naked  coast  has  a 

117 


1 1 8  JO  URNE  YS  THR  0  UGH  FRA  A'CE 

bracing  effect.  Here,  we  have  only  fine  sensations, 
incomplete  and  uncertain.  There  is  no  grand  com- 
bination. You  can  but  fix  your  attention  on  a 
nook,  on  the  fringe  of  a  wood,  a  dell  with  a 
glistening  rivulet,  a  bay  of  blue  sky,  crowning  the 
hillside.  It  may  be  that  the  fragment  is  not 
essentially  beautiful ;  all  we  can  say  is  that  it 
excites  personal  emotions,  light  as  shadows,  and 
as  transient. 

Soon  after  Dijon  is  passed,  the  land  begins  to 
undulate ;  then  we  reach  the  Jura  Mountains — 
mountains  which  are  green  to  their  summits.  The 
effect  upon  me  now  is  peculiar:  the  clouds  must 
be  ever  brooding  over  them,  and  steeping  them 
with  moisture.  Here  at  any  rate  there  is  no  hot, 
untempered  sun !  There  is  not  a  breath  of  air 
or  an  inch  of  soil  which  is  not  saturated, — and  man 
is  saturated  with  the  rest 

At  nightfall,  under  a  clear  and  moonlit  sky,  there 
is  nothing  but  immense,  black,  undulating  shapes. 


BESANQON. 

I  DROVE  to  the  chapel  of  Buis,  a  league  from  the 
town. 

Vineyards  everywhere.  We  are  under  a  clement 
sky ;  but  the  Doubs  is  in  flood  over  the  narrow 
plain,  and  has  drowned  its  eyots  and  its  banks. 
One  half  of  the  Jura  range  extends  before  us  in 
a  curve.  The  mountains  rise  in  two  or  three  stages, 
the  last  of  them  marking  out  the  horizon.  But  there 
is  no  parapet,  no  broken  line  sharply  defined  with 
a  bold  contour  of  rocks,  as  in  the  Alps  or  Pyrenees. 
Only  the  undulation  of  a  chain  of  hills.  Indeed,  the 
effect  is  that  of  very  lofty  hills,  green  to  the  summit, 
and  several  of  them  covered  with  woods.  These 
great  green  slopes  extend  to  an  extraordinary  width, 
showing  a  broken  surface,  and  lined  in  many 
directions  by  trees,  which  fringe  the  falling  streams. 

We  walked  for  half  an  hour  along  a  ridge,  over  a 
fine  turf,  amidst  the  thyme  and  junipers,  by  the  side 
of  a  stunted  wood,  under  a  tepid  sun,  and  a  sky  veiled 
in  watery  mist.  In  front  of  us  were  two  charming 
mountains,  wooded  to  their  crests — two  beautiful 

119 


I2O  JOURNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

cones  of  dark  green,  springing  up  from  the  dull 
broad  slopes  of  pasture-land,  and  contrasting  their 
darkness  with  the  paler  verdure.  The  sky  shines 
feebly  above  them,  with  the  tender,  timid  smile  of 
an  autumn  sky. 

Every  landscape  has  its  divinity ;  we  must  fall 
back  on  the  gods  in  order  to  find  expression  for 
the  phenomena  of  nature.  Back  to  the  old  world 
am  I  carried  for  the  complete  and  true  expression 
of  the  sensations  which  at  such  a  moment  as  this 
re-echo  through  my  soul.  Here  one  craves  for  a 
primitive  poet  to  call  forth  the  goddess  of  these 
mountains,  of  this  tender  verdure,  this  inexhaustible 
freshness.  I  cannot  express  the  grace  of  eternal 
youth  of  these  verdant  virgin  pyramids,  haunted  by 
the  forests  alone,  where  nothing  but  the  forest  has 
lived  since  the  first  dawn  of  day. 

The  type  of  the  women  here  is  transformed 
together  with  the  landscape.  Cheeks  of  rosy  bloom, 
gray-blue  eyes,  ever  varying  their  light  like  the 
waters  of  the  Doubs,  a  youthful  vigour  and  some- 
what timid  grace,  unknown  to  the  children  of  the 
South.  But  we  are  not  yet  in  Germany :  the  vivacity 
is  greater  if  the  candour  is  less. 

The  College  is  a  fine  building,  with  wide  courts 
shaded  by  venerable  trees.  From  the  front  steps 


BESAN^ON  1 2 1 

we  look  upon  a  wooded  mountain,  standing  out 
clear  against  the  light.  This  was  an  old  Jesuit 
property,  which  came  to  them  from  M.  d'Ancier, 
through  the  goodwill  of  the  heir-at-law.1 

"  Besangon,"  the  Principal  says,  "  is  like  a  Capuchin 
friary.  The  cardinal-archbishop  is  more  powerful 
here  than  the  Emperor.  Every  nomination  passes 
through  his  hands.  During  the  elections  a  few  days 
ago  he  sent  home  all  the  students  in  the  seminary 
in  order  to  confiscate  the  bad  tickets,  and  to  put 
good  ones  in  their  place.  They  came  back  in  the 
evening  with  basketfuls  of  bad  tickets.  The  prefet 
was  almost  out  of  his  mind.  All  the  great  lawyers 
attached  to  the  courts  consult  him  about  the  careers 
of  their  sons. 

"  The  College  has  two  hundred  boarders,  recruited 
from  the  merchants  and  country  residents.  Two 
large  religious  houses  compete  with  it,  and  take 
all  the  young  men  from  the  town.  There  is  an 
exclusive  nobility,  even  more  haughty  than  they  are 
at  Dijon,  who  identify  themselves  with  the  clergy." 

I  am  more  and  more  convinced  that  there  are  only 
two  parties  in  France,  Clericals  and  Liberals.  In 
Paris  the  distinction  is  less  conspicuous,  owing  to  the 
vehemence  and  variety  of  opinions  ;  but  it  is  evident 

1  See  Zier  Ehre  Gottes,  by  Meissner :  a  Life  of  Everard. 


122  JOURNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

that  all  that  is  most  backward,  provincial,  inert,  and 
self-interested,  is  under  the  thumb  of  the  clergy. 

A  Christian  Brother  has  to  subscribe  two  hundred 
francs  a  year  to  the  funds  of  his  Order.  They  live 
in  trios,  at  a  village  school,  each  receiving  six 
hundred  francs,  in  addition  to  furnished  rooms, 
presents,  and  so  forth.  One  of  the  three  is  a  serving 
Brother.  They  have  neither  expenses  nor  pleasures, 
and  they  vie  with  each  other  in  sending  as  much  as 
possible  to  the  funds.  M.  Rouland  affirmed  that 
in  one  year  the  Brothers  had  put  by  800,000 
francs,  and  that  he  had  been  obliged  to  agree  to 
their  purchasing  estates.  There  is  a  Brother  Philip 
at  Toulouse,  who  is  a  sort  of  king  in  his  way. 

There  is  no  boarding-school  for  girls  here ;  nothing 
but  convents  and  religious  schools.  The  clergy  have 
a  hold  upon  half  of  the  men  through  the  women. 
When  a  young  girl  is  rich,  they  try  to  lure  her,  and 
make  her  take  the  veil.  And  at  eighteen  the  mind  is 
so  pliant,  the  head  is  so  inflated  !  I  have  heard  of  a 
score  of  captured  heiresses. 

It  is  to  be  remembered  that  our  attraction  to  ideas, 
our  speculative  zeal,  our  Parisian  curiosity,  our  philo- 
sophy and  liberalism,  are  confined  to  a  few  heads,  for 
a  few  years  at  a  time.  All  this  interests  us  between 
nineteen  and  twenty  -  five.  A  certain  number  of 
eccentrics  are  bitten  for  the  rest  of  their  lives  ;  but 


BESAN^ON  123 

the  others,  who  are  the  vast  majority,  suddenly  fall 
back  into  a  life  of  actualities.  "My  interest  and 
special  business,"  says  the  notary,  the  peasant,  and  the 
shopkeeper,  "  is  to  live,  to  make  money,  to  put  some 
of  it  by,  to  give  my  son  a  leg  up  in  the  world,  to  dress 
my  wife,  to  buy  a  bit  of  land  ;  consequently,  I  must 
make  friends  of  the  policemen  and  the  priests,  who 
protect  all  these  interests  against  dangerous  people, 
and  dangerous  doctrines.  We  must  not  create 
difficulties,  and  increase  our  burdens."  The  only 
opposition  provoked  by  the  clergy  is  that  which  is 
depicted  in  "  Rouge  et  Noir."  "If  they  spoil  my 
business,  or  demand  too  much  of  my  money  for  their 
charities;  if  they  meddle  too  much  in  my  family;  if 
their  aristocratic  allies  insult  me  too  much,  and  keep  all 
the  good  places  for  their  own  sons,  then  it  will  be 
another  case  of  1830." 

I  find  here  a  great  deal  that  is  full  of  charm  and 
attraction.  The  sky  is  clear,  and  the  air  is  cold. 
In  the  morning,  a  delightful  and  wholesome  freshness 
falls  upon  the  old  flat-tiled  roofs — high  roofs  rising 
sheer  into  the  fleckless  azure.  One  could  paint  a 
dozen  pictures  in  the  streets.  Thus,  at  the  Faculte,  I 
went  frequently  from  the  Examination  Hall  to  look  at 
the  fine  brown  roof,  against  a  background  of  fresh 
blue.  The  vines  and  the  bindweed  embower  the 


124  JOURNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

porch,  and  hang  in  festoons  over  the  massive,  reddish 
stone.  At  the  end  of  the  street  the  mountain  swims 
in  a  luminous  mist,  and  the  sky  hangs  like  a  white 
canopy  above  it. 

Besangon  is  an  old  town,  full  of  Spanish  relics  of 
the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries.  Most  of  the 
buildings  are  of  large  stones,  and  masses  of  rock, 
firmly  laid  upon  each  other.  Their  solidity  and 
durability  are  in  pleasing  contrast  with  our  offhand 
erections  in  Paris,  or  with  the  factories  of  Lyons. 

The  palace  of  Cardinal  Granvelle  is  a  mansion  of 
two  floors,  somewhat  low,  with  a  large  inner  court, 
and  a  gallery  running  round  the  four  sides  of  the 
court,  supported  by  arcades  with  very  low,  obtuse- 
angled  arches.  Such  arches  are  not  rare,  and  they 
have  a  strange  effect.  The  windows  of  this  palace 
are  very  fine ;  they  are  set  in  a  carved  stone  cross, 
and  surmounted  by  a  cornice.  Nothing  could  be 
more  delightful  and  cheerful ;  it  is  Renaissance  work. 
There  are  similar  windows  in  many  Besangon  houses. 
A  well-preserved  turret  may  frequently  be  noticed,  or 
a  lancet-arched  door.  There  is  a  house  on  the  out- 
skirts of  the  town,  in  perfect  preservation,  which 
carries  us  back  to  the  heart  of  the  Renaissance.  It  is 
small,  but  in  excellent  taste,  finely  proportioned,  and 
with  a  lantern-roof,  the  general  effect  being  very 
good.  Some  of  the  flights  of  steps  are  constructed  of 


BESANqON  125 

grooved  slabs,  laid  face  to  face,  as  in  the  Luxembourg. 
Grilled  windows  with  convex  panes  are  common,  and 
there  are  many  with  diamond  panes,  such  as  one  would 
see  in  a  Spanish  convent. 

The  churches  are  ugly,  after  the  seventeenth- 
century  Jesuit  fashion,  with  bracketed  fagades,  crude 
and  gilded  monstrances,  and  staring  columns  inside. 

There  is  a  curious  Town  Hall,  narrow  and  stunted, 
with  low  galleries,  a  remnant  of  cramped  mediaeval 
work.  Two  good  paintings  are  preserved  in  the 
Cathedral — a  St  Sebastian  of  Fra  Bartolommeo,  and 
another  Sebastian  of  Del  Piombo.  The  archbishop 
himself  was  in  his  stall,  officiating  in  his  grand  red 
pallium.  He  is  a  king  here — ali  but  a  divinity. 

A  painter  might  spend  two  months  in  this  town. 
There  are  quaint  narrow  streets,  without  windows, 
blind  and  dark  in  the  evening,  like  streets  in  Spain. 
The  high  pointed  roofs,  black  with  smoke,  and  crowded 
with  chimneys,  look  positively  strenuous ;  and  the 
medley  of  buildings  and  balconies  in  the  old  hovels 
that  swarm  about  the  river  is  sombre  and  peculiar. 
The  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries  have  left 
many  traces ;  and,  not  unnaturally,  the  minds  of  the 
inhabitants  seem  to  belong  to  the  same  centuries. 

I  dined  with  Lieut.-Col.  C and  another 

officer.  The  colonel  is  sixty,  and  looks  like  forty- 
five.  He  lives  on  the  mountain-side  with  his  wife, 


126  JOLRNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

interests  himself  in  the  schools  for  the  sake  of  occupa- 
tion, holds  an  examination  once  a  week,  and  gives 
prizes.  He  is  a  fine  fellow,  sound  in  mind  and  body, 
well  preserved  by  the  country  air  and  an  abstemious 
life.  We  need  such  men  in  France.  There  are 
plenty  of  them  in  England. 


FROM  BESANgON  TO  STRASBOURG. 

THE  railway  runs  along  the  bank  of  a  rapid  mountain 
stream,  through  a  narrow  valley.  It  is  finely  con- 
structed, and  passes  through  a  tunnel  about  every  two 
hours. 

The  country  is  delightful  ;  the  fresh  -  looking 
wooded  mountains  never  grow  monotonous.  Their 
shape  constantly  varies ;  there  is  a  new  aspect  every 
quarter  of  an  hour.  They  seem  to  me  ever  alive, 
presenting  here  a  chest  and  there  a  spine,  prone  or 
upright,  grave  and  noble  in  appearance. 

At  times  the  sun  sheds  a  flood  of  brightness  on 
the  sparkling  meadows,  soft  as  velvet.  This  strange 
moist  verdure,  pale-hued  and  fitfully  transparent, 
leaves  a  vague  sense  of  sadness  behind  it.  It  is 
doomed  to  die  and  to  be  born  again.  The  South  is 
far  more  charged  with  happiness. 

The  plain  begins,  I  think,  near  Mulhouse,  a  broad 
fertile  plain,  gloomy  and  water  -  logged.  Tobacco 
and  fodder-grass  flourish  here.  I  found  them  again 
beyond  Strasbourg,  as  far  as  Saverne.  The  land 

127 


128  JO URNE YS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

is  a  vast  kitchen-garden,  like  Flanders.  Fresh  from 
the  South,  one  is  struck  by  the  heavy,  coarse,  and 
profitable  fertility  of  the  district.  The  Northern 
races  think  much  of  eating  and  gorging.  It  is 
manifest  in  all  the  types.  What  thick-headed  clods 
the  gendarmes  are  !  What  masses  of  flesh  are  the 
fat  little  red-faced  sisters !  They  are  coarsely  and 
broadly  built,  as  though  they  had  been  hewn  out 
with  a  hatchet.  The  Framer  of  Humanity  has  made 
His  wares  in  the  rough.  For  a  contrast  we  have 
only  to  look  to  the  alert  and  slender  Southerners  of 
Toulouse,  as  trim  as  if  they  had  come  straight  out 
of  a  bandbox. 

But  the  dark  Vosges  Mountains,  rising  one  above 
another,  and  the  sinking  sun,  as  it  hurls  its  last 
handful  of  golden  darts,  are  very  fine. 


STRASBOURG. 

THERE  is  here  an  aspect  of  gloom,  an  entire  lack 
of  distinction.  It  is  a  town  where  no  one  feels 
the  need  of  refinement  and  luxury.  I  am  staying 
in  the  big  Place  Kleber,  and  its  sole  adornment  is 
the  statue  of  Kleber,  surrounded  by  four  gas-lamps. 
The  four  sides  of  the  square  consist  of  low  houses, 
many  made  of  wood  and  plaster,  all  essentially 
commonplace.  Our  hotel  looks  from  the  outside 
like  an  ordinary  inn.  The  roofs  are  everywhere 
very  long  and  steep,  as  is  most  convenient  in  coun- 
tries liable  to  much  rain  and  snow.  They  have 
several  rows  of  windows  and  dormers — in  some 
cases  as  many  as  four.  These  lofts  are  not  all  used 
for  living  purposes,  but  every  mistress  of  a  house- 
hold likes  to  have  her  attic  for  washing,  and  thus 
each  house  has  several  storeys  of  attics. 

I   made   acquaintance  with  many   of  the   smaller 
streets,  and  found  nothing  but  the  houses  of  common- 
place, uncultivated  men,  indifferent  to  outward  show. 
They   meet    in    the    tap-rooms ;    almost   everybody 
I  129 


I3O  JOURNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

frequents  these  places  in  the  evening,  and  there  is 
a  great  deal  of  drinking.  Nothing  could  look  more 
sordid  than  these  swarms  of  men,  in  blouse  or  black 
coat,  of  every  condition  of  life,  under  the  flickering 
gas,  in  a  cloud  of  thick  smoke,  amidst  a  deafening 
babel  of  talk,  as  they  spit,  and  smoke,  and  jostle 
each  other,  and  drink,  and  derive  what  comfort  they 
can  from  that  steaming  and  malodorous  atmosphere. 
Such  as  are  more  particular  pick  their  way  through 
this  crowd,  and  penetrate  to  a  room  above.  At  the 
"John  Cade,"  which  is  the  most  pretentious-looking 
cafe",  in  a  large  and  lofty  hall,  which  is  probably  a 
relic  of  some  older  building,  there  is  no  distinction 
between  the  blouse  and  the  black  coat. 

A  few  isolated  types  and  interiors  cling  to  my 
memory.  Why  I  should  remember  these  types 
more  than  others  I  cannot  say.  In  a  restaurant 
where  I  dined,  there  was  a  pretty  little  waitress, 
simple  and  rosy-cheeked,  who  looked  you  full  in 
the  face  with  a  frank  and  close  scrutiny  in  her 
blue  eyes.  In  another,  the  landlady,  within  a  month 
of  her  time,  moved  grandly  calm,  unconscious  and 
impressive  amongst  her  guests.  Imagine  the  com- 
mentaries on  that  text  in  a  little  Parisian  restaurant. 

I  was  both  amused  and  saddened  by  one  glimpse 

of  home  life.  G is  a  lawyer,  hard  at  work  all 

day  on  his  briefs ;  and  in  the  evenings  he  plays  the 


STRASBOURG  131 

flute  in  a  band  of  amateurs.  That  is  his  ideal  side. 
For  the  rest,  he  lives  in  a  wretched  little  house, 
down  a  half-deserted  lane,  with  no  light  at  the 
door  or  in  the  passage.  A  servant  shouted  to  him 
in  German,  with  the  voice  and  laugh  of  a  carter. 
There  were  five  children,  not  too  clean,  a  litter  of 
disorder  inside  his  room,  a  dozen  different  things 
that  were  not  pleasant  to  look  at.  His  wife  is  half 
ethereal  angel,  half  maid-of-all-work.  These  are  the 
sort  of  folk  who  will  live,  like  my  poor  Parisian  scholar, 
or  like  Jean  Paul,  in  what  is  little  better  than  a  stable, 
and  their  souls  will  be  lulled  by  science  or  music. 

It  is  easy  to  see  from  the  examinations  that  we 
are  back  in  the  North  again.  Many  of  the  candidates 
looked  as  though  they  had  been  frozen.  When  a 
question  was  put  to  them,  they  would  remain  for  a 
full  minute  before  they  answered  it.  One  could  see 
the  clock  within  them  slowly  beginning  to  move, 
one  wheel  bit  into  the  other,  and  at  last,  not  without 
difficulty,  it  struck.  They  seemed,  with  their  jerking 
speech,  like  bears  ensconced  in  fat,  almost  insensible 
beneath  this  living  wad. 

There  was  an  excellent  captain  in  the  Engineers 
who  helped  me  with  the  gymnastic  tests.  He  was 
not  a  smart  man.  He  scarcely  ventured  to  say,  or 
said  with  many  reservations,  how  many  marks  each 
candidate  ought  to  have.  His  perceptive  faculties 


132  JOURNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

were  not  brilliant,  but,  taking  him  altogether,  he  is  an 
excellent  fellow.  He  was  a  soldier,  and  learned 
mathematics,  not  with  a  view  to  promotion,  but  for  a 
whim.  His  favourite  subject  is  analytical  geometry. 
He  goes  fishing  every  week,  setting  out  as  the  gates 
are  opened,  and  brings  home  big  carp,  which  he 
presents  to  his  friends.  He  keeps  his  son  under  his 
eye,  declining  to  send  him  to  La  Fleche ;  he  teaches 
him  mathematics,  and  goes  out  with  him  on  horseback. 

"  It  is  better  to  keep  your  children  with  you,"  he 
said,  "  for  that  strengthens  the  family  ties."  He  visits 
the  cafe  regularly  after  breakfast.  I  saw  him  in  his 
uniform,  with  new  epaulettes  and  a  cross.  He  has 
feet  like  an  elephant ;  and  I  was  struck  by  his  cheer- 
fulness and  honest  common  sense. 

It  is  odd  to  see  the  Strasbourg  folk  talking  German 
at  the  cafe.  Each  one  speaks  in  his  turn,  as  long  as 
he  chooses  :  the  rest  wait  till  he  has  finished,  without 
interrupting.  Parisians  would  break  in  a  score  of 
times,  for  with  us  replies  and  contradictions  are  ex- 
plosive, as  anyone  may  see  at  Magny,  or  when  we  go 
to  read  the  papers.  The  mood  of  these  people 
prepares  them  for  political  assemblies  and  constitu- 
tional life.  Philarete  Chasles  tells  us  that  the  German 
immigrants  in  the  United  States  fall  into  line  in  the 
most  natural  manner. 


PART    II. 


DOUAI. 

ONE  is  very  comfortable  here.  The  cheerful 
morning  light  breaks  in  through  the  three  large 
windows  of  my  room.  The  high  brown  roofs  and 
brick  chimneys  cut  the  limpid  air  and  the  pale  blue 
sky.  Everything  is  clean,  and  bright,  and  peaceful. 
Some  little  girls,  in  tightly-drawn  white  stockings, 
are  crossing  the  square,  leaning  on  the  arms  of  their 
nurse ;  a  mother  follows  with  four  more,  like  a  fine 
hen  proud  of  her  chicks.  A  donkey  trots  quietly 
along,  drawing  a  market-woman's  vegetables,  and  she 
is  as  red  as  her  own  carrots.  A  hussar  rides  by  on 
his  horse.  Workmen  come  next,  smoking  long  pipes. 
The  square  is  wide,  open,  clean,  free  from  dust,  or 
noise,  or  smells.  How  restful  it  is,  after  Paris ! 

Above  all,  how  easily  one  begins  to  dream  of  peace 
and  competence !  If  one  had  a  house  of  one's  own, 
a  house  of  glazed  bricks.  ...  It  should  have  wide 
windows,  looking  out  on  a  line  of  poplars,  and  a 
stream  close  by,  with  well-gravelled  banks,  where  one 
might  walk  every  day  at  five  in  the  afternoon.  A  nice, 

135 


136  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

good-complexioned  wife,   not  too  lean,  placid   and 
shapely,  unfolding  like  a  tulip  in  a  flower-pot,  and  never 
disturbing   my  calm.     Servants  should  wait   on   us, 
without  any  fuss,  punctual  to  a  minute.     They  should 
not  be   scolded,  they  would   never  rob   one ;    they 
should  have  plenty  to  eat,  go  to  bed  at  nine,  be  quite 
contented  with  their  lot.     The  master,  too,  should  go 
to  bed  at  nine,  have  a  clean  shirt  every  day,  a  little 
green  carriage,  a  sanded  cellar,  full  of  old  Burgundy  ; 
he  should  entertain  his  friends  ;  his  house  and  wearing 
linen  should  be  got  up  to  perfection ;  well-cut  trans- 
parent wine-glasses,  with  fine  stems,  and   of  good 
patterns,   soft-toned   china   and   bright   earthenware, 
should  make  my  table  shine.     We  should  not   pine 
for  witty  conversation  ;  the  dinner  should  be  so  good 
that  it  would   be  pleasure  enough  simply  to  eat   it. 
Our  children,  chubby  little  girls  with  pink  cheeks  and 
great  laughing  fearless  eyes,  should  come  and  kiss 
their  parents  at  dessert.     They  should  have  a  lump  of 
sugar  dipped  in  coffee,  or  in  the  little  glass  of  Dutch 
curagao ;  they  should  laugh  honestly  and  gaily,  yet 
look  half  ashamed  of  themselves,  as  they  slipped  the 
lump  of  sugar  between  their  rosy  lips  !     How  happy 
we  should  be,  without  asking  ourselves  why ! 

Along  the  course  of  the  Scarpe  is  a  bank  of  earth 
to  save  the  fields  from  being  flooded.     Standing  upon 


DOUAI  137 

it  one  can  see  the  whole  country-side,  yellow  with  the 
ingathering  of  the  harvest,  and  dotted  with  clumps  of 
trees.  Here  and  there  is  the  red  roof  of  a  house,  or  a 
long  black  stack  of  coal.  The  tree-tops,  the  wide- 
spread harvest  fields,  float  in  a  limpid  haze,  which  is 
pierced  by  the  sunbeams,  until  all  nature  is  clothed 
in  a  soft,  aerial,  delicate  garment.  Thus  nurtured, 
every  living  thing  expands  with  softer  and  frailer 
tissues,  and  seems  to  swim  in  an  element  of  imperish- 
able happiness.  There  are  no  words  to  express  the 
peaceful  vision,  the  voluptuous  tranquillity  of  the 
poplars,  grouped  at  intervals  in  the  liberal  air,  as  far 
as  the  eye  can  reach.  The  leaves  themselves  are 
motionless,  as  though  wrapped  in  sleep. 


AMIENS. 

I  STOPPED  at  Amiens  to  see  the  Cathedral.  The 
screens  which  cut  off  the  side-chapels  from  the  tran- 
sept are  very  curious,  reminding  one  of  a  dense 
interlacing  forest,  with  the  exaggeration  which  one 
finds  in  a  mediaeval  picture  of  Dore's,  yet  without 
his  boldness. 

On  the  walls  of  the  choir  there  is  carved  the  story 
of  St  John  Baptist.  The  executioner  is  a  superb 
type  of  a  sixteenth-century  noble ;  an  admirable 
head  of  the  saint,  with  closed  eyes.  It  is  a  profound 
realisation  of  death.  The  wealth  of  ideas,  the  im- 
press of  the  artist's  soul,  the  great  variety  of  robes, 
architectural  features,  plants,  and  animals,  all  the 
rich  treasure  of  the  Renaissance  is  borne  in  upon 
us  as  we  look.  The  bud  is  bursting  into  flower. 
It  was  covered  with  gold,  many-hued,  resplendent, 
all  but  dazzling.  It  had  nothing  of  the  ascetic. 
The  naked  Christ,  newly  baptized,  is  already 
statuesque.  The  hieratic  style  is  passing  into 
realism.  It  is  interesting  to  see  here  the  end  of 


AMIENS  1 39 

the  Gothic,  as  it  was  at  Solesmes  to  witness  the 
renewal  of  the  Pagan. 

On  the  north  side  is  the  story  of  St  Firmin. 
These  tributes  to  patron  saints  are  notable.  Every 
city  had  its  little  special  divinity,  like  the  cities  of 
Greece,  only  the  Greek  triumphant  deity  belongs 
to  a  city  of  conquering  heroes ;  here  the  saint  in 
tribulation  is  for  a  flock  of  oppressed  victims. 

But  the  Cathedral  has  nothing  more  striking  than 
the  two  bronze  tombs  of  the  founders,  Evrard  de 
Fouilloy  (1223)  and  Geoffroy  d'Eu  (1226).  They 
bespeak  a  profound  and  admirable  immobility ;  they 
will  slumber  thus  to  all  eternity.  Not  a  single  idea 
is  expressed  in  these  heads ;  nothing  could  be  more 
simple  than  the  interpretation.  This  is  why  the 
convictions  of  men  were  more  absolute  in  those 
days  ;  humanity  was  simpler,  and  therefore  stronger. 


AN  EXCURSION  TO  ST  MALO. 

IN  the  roadstead  there  are  seven  or  eight  small 
islands,  occupied  by  ancient  forts.  They  are  rough, 
bare  granite  rocks,  full  of  clefts  and  ravines,  under- 
mined on  all  sides  by  the  violence  of  the  sea,  covered 
with  a  crust  of  shells,  like  the  seeds  of  milfoil. 
Seaweeds  cling  to  them,  stretching  out  their  supple 
stalks,  and  their  bladders  swollen  by  the  ebb.  The 
crust  is  thicker  by  the  water's  edge.  Crust  on  crust, 
these  myriads  of  swarming  nations  have  covered 
the  highest  rocks  from  base  to  summit,  on  every 
chine  and  cliff.  It  crackles  underfoot,  and  your 
hand  breaks  it  off  in  flakes  as  you  guide  yourself 
along. 

The  sea  has  shattered  and  defaced  the  rocks ; 
and  they  in  their  turn  mangle  and  contort  the 
sea.  They  break  and  split  it  in  a  hundred  forms, 
force  it  into  the  tortuous  clefts,  making  it  leap  their 
little  dams,  waste  itself  in  the  pools,  and  dash 
against  the  restraining  dykes.  Every  corner  has 
its  vegetation  and  its  haunting  life ;  each  is  a  sea 


140 


AN  EXCURSION  TO  ST  MALO  141 

in  itself.  The  limpets  have  glued  on  their  solid 
cones,  the  red  starfish,  planted  in  the  narrow  crevices, 
lazily  stretch  their  rings  of  tentacles ;  the  dark-blue 
mussels  extend  their  colonies  along  the  slopes,  and 
life  is  so  abundant  that  they  are  incrusted  almost 
as  soon  as  born  with  the  white  little  shells  that  clothe 
the  rock.  In  the  still  water  of  the  creeks  the  long 
flexible  seaweeds  develop  their  growth.  Close- 
packed  swarms  of  accumulated  shells  occupy  the 
deep  hollows  in  a  glistening  mass.  The  trans- 
parent water  covers  its  blue  bed  with  a  pale  topaz 
tint ;  or,  lapping  the  edges,  it  sprinkles  the  sea-moss 
every  minute  as  with  a  jet  of  pearls  ;  whilst,  all  round 
the  island  shore,  it  draws  its  girdle  of  fluttering  lace. 
This  soft  white  fringe  appears  more  delicate  still 
as  the  eye  travels  along  the  pile  of  wrinkled  rocks, 
the  perilous  bristling  peaks,  the  stern  ruggedness 
of  the  bare  granite.  Further  out  to  sea  the  broad 
belt  of  blue  sways  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  under 
a  white  and  luminous  sky.  Ocean  laughs  in  joy 
and  peace.  Here  and  there  it  heaves  with  an 
infinitude  of  little  flashes,  like  quivering  scales  of 
gold.  Amidst  all  this  splendour  the  gray  isles,  the 
walls  of  gloomy  granite,  the  two  headlands  of  the 
coast,  cut  into  and  hollow  out  both  -the  white  and 
the  blue. 


POITIERS. 

A  DOZEN  years  ago  I  found  this  town  so  ugly,  so 
uninhabitable !  Now  it  amuses  me.  Perched  on 
the  hill-side,  with  its  tortuous  streets,  its  buildings 
of  every  age  and  description,  strangely  piled  one 
above  another,  it  might  furnish  a  subject  for  a 
picture  at  every  twenty  steps. 

It  is  extremely  inhospitable  and  exclusive.  Most 
of  the  principal  houses  stand  by  themselves,  each 
in  its  own  garden,  with  its  outbuildings,  shut  in  by 
high  walls,  with  a  frowning  gate. 

A  friend  of  my  people,  M.  N ,  an  avocat 

who  aspires  to  be  a  magistrate,  has  paid  me  a  visit 
at  my  hotel.  He  is  thirty,  but  he  looks  forty. 
Except  for  a  trip  to  Paris  at  rare  intervals,  he  has 
never  budged  from  Poitiers.  He  is  rich,  and  his 
family  own  two  or  three  estates.  He  is  unmarried, 
and  is  a  gentle  creature,  scrupulously  polite, 
oppressively  proper,  with  all  the  provincial's 
prudence  and  caution. 

142 


POITIERS  143 

He  took  me  to  Blossac,  the  public  park.  It  is 
a  large  area,  planted  close  with  tall  trees,  and  from 
its  terraces  one  can  see  the  Clain,  and  the  broad 
plain  surrounding  it.  When  I  was  there,  at  nine 
in  the  evening,  the  town  looked  like  an  enchanted 
city,  the  city  of  the  Sleeping  Beauty.  There  was 
a  long  street  without  a  living  soul,  and  with  a 
single  glimmering  light  at  either  end.  All  the 
shutters  were  closed  and  the  blinds  drawn ;  all 
was  still ;  the  great  black  piles  had  a  sepulchral 
aspect  in  their  quaint  confusion.  The  high  trees 
in  the  unillumined  void  rustled  unseen ;  the  sky, 
diamonded  with  stars,  suggested  strange  forms  in 
the  vast  darkness  which  hung  in  the  air,  or  buried 
itself  beneath  the  ridges.  No  deeper  impression 
of  solitude  could  be  felt  in  a  city  suddenly  struck 
with  death,  overtaken  by  a  sudden  pestilence,  and 
deserted  by  its  inhabitants.  The  semi-darkness  of 
the  park,  and  of  the  indistinct  horizon,  had  a 
melancholy  grandeur. 

There  are  four  or  five  distinct  and  exclusive  social 
groups — the  nobility,  the  magistracy,  officials  of  lower 

rank,   commerce,  and   trade.     According  to    N , 

there  are  people  worth  from  sixteen  to  twenty-eight 
million  francs.  He  named  two  of  these  millionaires 
who  took  an  interest  in  learning  and  art ;  yet  they 


144  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

never  see  the  professors  and  learned  men  in  the  town. 

Professor  B has  from  twenty  to  sixty  persons  at 

his  lectures,  but  his  is  the  largest  class.     C ,  a 

professor  of  philosophy,  has  nearly  as  many.  Most 
of  them  are  students,  and  that  keeps  people  in  good 

society  from  going.     However,  according  to  B , 

nobody  works  at  the  subject,  or  is  able  to  keep 
abreast  of  it  In  towns  like  Douai  and  Cannes  there 
is  a  better  state  of  things ;  people  in  society  take 
their  daughters,  but  then  the  lectures  become  merely 
pleasant  and  soothing,  like  a  familiar  conversation. 

Here   Z created   a    scandal,   and    emptied    his 

benches,  by  praising  the  Stoics  in  comparison  with 
the  Christians. 

The  former  rector,  M.  K ,  had  been  a  vicar- 
general  somewhere  in  the  department  of  the  Nord. 
As  soon  as  he  came  here  he  was  placed  under  an 
interdict ;  not  an  ecclesiastic  would  visit  him — not 
even  the  humblest  abbe*.  The  university  is  the 
enemy,  and  a  priest  who  is  at  the  head  of  it  goes 
over  to  the  enemy. 

The  nobility  keeps  to  itself.  When  I  was  there  in 
1852,  a  new  prefet  invited  everybody,  townsfolk  and 
nobility,  to  a  ball.  There  were  at  once  two  camps  in 
the  ball-room,  with  a  wide  gap  between  them  ;  only 
a  few  of  the  boldest  young  people  dared  to  establish 


POITIERS  145 

communications.  And  the  preTet  did  not  repeat  the 
experiment. 

This  is  the  home  of  the  famous  Monseigneur  Pie, 
who  discovered  Gisquel  the  Zouave.  He  is  all- 
powerful.  He  directed  that  B and  his  wife 

should  be  named  from  the  pulpit,  because  they  did 
not  go  to  mass.  Last  year  he  received  a  free  bequest 
of  a  quarter  of  a  million  francs,  to  be  used  at  his 
discretion. 

A  special  preTet,  M.  L ,  a  very  able  man,  had  to 

be  sent  here  to  counterbalance  his  influence ;  but  at 
the  end  of  three  years  he  grew  tired  of  it,  and  went 
away.  Yet  he  had  some  effect.  When  he  first  came, 
knowing  that  the  visits  of  the  preTet  to  the  aristocracy 
were  not  returned,  he  stayed  at  home,  which  was  a 
novelty.  Afterwards,  however,  he  visited  all  the  mer- 
chants, manufacturers,  lawyers,  and  notaries,  praised 
the  practical,  hard-working  townspeople,  and  made 
sport  of  the  idle  and  rusty  nobles.  He  pleased  those 
classes,  entertained  them  at  his  house,  gave  parties, 
and  was  the  means  of  others  being  given.  There 
were  two  subscription  balls,  with  seven  hundred  guests 
at  each.  The  effect  was  remarkable.  Up  to  that  time, 
the  Legitimists  were  always  saying  that  trade  depended 
on  them,  and  that,  if  they  were  to  stay  at  home,  the 
production  of  articles  of  luxury  would  come  to  an  end. 

These  aristocrats  beget  large  families.  I  heard  of 
K 


146  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

one  which  sat  down  twenty-three  to  table.  None  of 
these  have  any  occupation  or  employment,  for  that 
would  be  derogatory.  Every  member  of  the  family 
has  a  horse,  which  means  a  great  expenditure  and 
frequent  embarrassment.  There  are  only  two  or  three 
families  in  the  neighbourhood  with  an  income  of  fifty 
or  sixty  thousand  pounds.  A  good  deal  of  stinginess 

is  the  consequence.  B shoots  with  the  Director 

of  Taxes,  and  one  day  he  unwittingly  trespassed  some 
fifty  paces  from  his  own  grounds  on  the  domain  of  a 
certain  viscountess.  He  was  not  shooting,  but  carried 
his  gun  under  his  arm.  He  had  simply  wandered 
too  far.  A  gamekeeper  stopped  him. 

"  I  was  not  shooting,"  said  he. 

"  You  must  tell  that  to  the  viscountess." 

The  Director  was  very  crestfallen.  He  would  not 
for  anything  have  the  case  taken  into  court,  on  ac- 
count of  his  position ;  so,  on  behalf  of  himself  and 

B ,  he  went  to  see  the  viscountess.  She  received 

him  in  a  lofty  and  magnificent  panelled  room,  though 
the  furniture  was  very  old-fashioned.  He  made  his 
explanation. 

"  That  will  be  twenty  francs  for  each  of  you,"  she 
said,  holding  out  her  hand  for  the  money. 

The  nobility  have  ugly  and  gloomy  mansions,  with 
poor  exteriors.  Within,  the  rooms  are  very  grand, 
and  the  gardens  are  as  large  as  parks.  With  the 


POITJERS  147 

thirty-eight  closed  convents,  this  gives  the  town  a 
strange  appearance.  There. are  little  rambling,  pre- 
cipitous streets,  with  old  grass-grown  pavements, 
lamps  at  considerable  distances,  which  are  ex- 
tinguished at  night,  joyless  gloom,  a  dreary  solitude 
after  eight  in  the  evening,  and  often  throughout  the 
day ;  unoccupied  houses  on  either  side  of  the  way, 
bulging  out  or  collapsing  inward ;  few  windows — 
sometimes  only  one,  as  a  sort  of  peep-hole ;  gates 
.which  look  as  though  they  had  never  turned  on  their 
hinges ;  moss  growing  between  the  stones  ;  silence, 
and  a  vague  suggestion  of  any  number  of  decaying, 
cloistered  lives. 

When  I  was  there  the  young  men,  in  the  absence 
of  other  amusements,  led  sordid,  dissolute  lives.  In 
the  afternoon  they  went  to  their  cafe"  in  the  Place 
d'Armes,  and  spent  their  time  in  yawning,  and  setting 
their  dogs  at  each  other.  Apparently  they  still  go  on 
doing  the  same  thing.  A  young  Legitimist  recently 
got  himself  into  trouble  by  a  tipsy  exploit.  Having 
no  money,  he  had  to  leave  behind  him,  in  pledge,  a 
family  ring  with  his  crest  upon  it.  Next  day,  the 
Police  Commissioner,  going  his  rounds,  discovered  the 
ring,  and  took  it  away,  leaving  his  receipt  for  it.  The 
young  man's  father  came  after  it  a  few  days  later, 
and  there  was  a  stormy  scene.  He  went  to  the  Commis- 
sioner, who  said  : 


148  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

"  I  acted,  sir,  in  your  own  interest.  They  might 
have  sold  the  ring,  and  it  is  an  heirloom.  I  paid  so 
much  on  your  behalf.  If  you  will  repay  me,  and  give 
me  a  written  demand,  I  will  restore  your  ring." 

The  other  wrote  out  his  demand,  describing  the 
ring,  the  place  where  it  was  left,  the  date,  and  so 
forth.  The  prefet  preserved  the  precious  sheet  of 
paper  in  his  portfolio ;  he  had  all  sorts  of  similar 
documents  in  case  of  need. 

For  the  rest,  the  young  men  are  stupid  boobies. 
Their  conversation  runs  in  this  fashion  : 

"  The  snipe  put  in  an  appearance  yesterday." 

"  So  soon  ?     Impossible ! " 

"  I  give  you  my  word  that  I  saw  three  last  evening 
amongst  the  wild- duck." 

"G 's  horse  is  the  best  trotter  in  the  depart- 
ment." 

"  I'll  back  my  bay  against  him." 

And  so  forth. 

The  prevailing  temperament  is  soft  and  sluggish  ;. 
no  one  is  energetic,  or  puts  himself  to  trouble,  or 

shows  impatience.  B 's  lectures  are  the  best 

attended.  One  day,  he  was  blamed  for  a  lecture  he 
gave  on  Greek  philosophy.  The  Bishop  complained  ; 
there  was  talk  of  his  dismissal  both  in  Paris  and  here  ; 
he  was  called  upon  to  retract.  He  stood  his  ground, 
and  had  the  best  of  the  polemic.  On  the  decisive  dayr 


POITIERS  149 

when  he  had  to  lecture  again,  no  one  knew  what 
would  come  of  it,  and  whether  he  would  not  be 
ordered  to  make  a  public  retractation  ;  yet  there  was 
not  a  single  additional  person  at  his  lecture. 

This  sort  of  moral  sluggishness  is  stamped  on  the 
faces  of  the  people.  There  are  many  peasant  girls 
in  the  streets,  with  their  tall  white  caps  and  stiff 
corsets,  like  mediaeval  women.  They  remind  you 
of  the  fifteenth-century  costumes  under  Charles  VII. 
There  is  a  strange  immobility  and  openness  in  their 
placid  features,  and  therewith  a  French  grace,  a 
piquancy,  a  quaint  and  voluptuous  attraction  in  these 
long  slender  necks,  these  intelligent  though  sleepy 
heads.  People  talk  familiarly  to  their  servants,  in  the 
primitive  fashion.  As  in  Brittany,  there  is  a  separa- 
tion of  classes  which  has  lasted  for  several  centuries. 
Three-fourths  of  the  great  events  in  French  history 
are  due  to  this  cause.  There  is  no  civilising  influence 
to  compare  with  a  religion  or  political  activity.  In 
spite  of  the  French  Revolution,  there  are  still  two 
nations  in  France — the  Gauls  on  one  hand,  and  on 
the  other  the  class  of  Latin  officials  and  German 
aristocrats. 

The  consequence  is  that  religion  is  all-powerful. 
There  were  thirty-eight  religious  houses  in  this  town 
alone.  The  Jesuit  College  has  seven  hundred  and 
fifty  students.  Everything  is  overborne  by  the  in- 


150  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

fluence  of  Monseigneur  Pie.  It  is  calculated  that 
three  hundred  thousand  people  come  every  year  to 
the  shrine  of  Saint  Radegonde.  When  her  day 
comes  round  in  August,  the  pilgrims  are  so  many 
and  so  poor  that  they  sleep  in  a  sort  of  encampment 
outside  the  town.  I  have  seen  the  tomb  ;  it  is  in  a 
pretty  Gothic  church  of  the  twelfth  century,  by  this 
time  well  sunk  into  the  earth.  At  all  the  doors,  and 
in  all  the  neighbouring  streets,  there  is  a  swarm  of 
women,  who  surround  and  pester  you  with  little 
medals  at  five  sous,  others  at  ten  sous,  and  innumer- 
able candles.  Old  beggars  on  the  threshold  beseech 
you  for  alms  in  a  piteous,  quavering  voice.  Within 
twenty  minutes  I  saw  a  dozen  people  come  in,  all  of 
the  poorer  class,  the  humbler  townsfolk,  and  all 
carrying  one  or  more  little  candles.  The  richer  sort 
are  not  content  with  that ;  they  have  been  into  a  shop 
hard  by  in  order  to  provide  themselves  with  a  better 
assortment  of  tapers. 

There  are  two  relics,  and  the  imprint  of  the  foot  of 
Christ,  when  He  manifested  Himself  to  the  saint. 
The  two  images  are  coloured.  I  saw  many  sous  and 
double  sous,  which  had  been  dropped  through  the 
grating.  I  was  told  that  a  few  sous  were  laid  there 
every  morning  as  a  nest-egg.  Beneath  the  church  is 
a  very  low  and  dark  crypt,  a  midnight  of  awful  and 
gloomy  darkness,  under  a  depressed  vault,  with  a  few 


POITIERS  1 5  I 

heavy  arched  windows.  One  has  to  feel  one's  way 
with  one's  hands,  or  set  one's  foot  at  a  venture  in  the 
shades  of  this  damp  sepulchre.  The  tomb  is  a 
hollowed  mass  of  stone,  raised  above  the  ground,  dark 
and  sombre,  varied  by  rude  carvings.  It  is  almost 
invisible,  being  plunged  into  deeper  darkness  by 
contrast  with  the  burning  tapers.  Votive  offerings, 
fragments  of  images,  and  waxen  limbs  are  placed 
amongst  the  candles  ;  the  warm  smoke  curls  upward 
to  the  vault ;  the  'stifling  smell  of  wax  is 
mingled  with  that  of  the  underground  cell.  It  is 
quite  a  mediaeval  spectacle.  This  strong  glare  at  the 
bottom  of  a  sort  of  well,  over  the  bones  of  a  dead 
woman,  is  a  Dantesque  vision ;  it  gets  upon  the 
nerves,  in  the  tragic  silence  of  this  awful  darkness. 
It  is  the  mystic  grave  of  a  saint,  who  perceives,  in  her 
prison  of  damp  earth,  sown  in  corruption,  and  ringed 
round  with  worms,  the  dazzling  brightness  of  the 
Saviour.  With  a  three  months'  retreat,  and  a 
sanctuary  like  that,  I  would  undertake  to  train 
women  for  visions  and  stigmata. 

Madame   B ,   who   took   her   children   to    the 

Stations  of  the  Cross  in  Holy  Week,  had  to  bring 
one  of  them  away,  suffering  from  nervous  attacks. 
When  I  was  at  Poitiers,  a  peasant  woman,  looking 
up  from  the  sepulchre,  saw  Heaven  opened,  and  Jesus 
Christ  in  His  glory.  That  was  held  to  be  a  miracle. 


152  JOURNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

A  leper  woman  was  recently  taken  there ;  she  re- 
mained for  an  hour  during  mass,  grovelling  under 
the  shrine  with  heartrending  cries.  She  fell  into  a 
sweat,  and  it  was  as  cold  there  as  in  the  cell  below. 
She  came  out  cured,  and  died  three  days  later.  A 
doctor  who  came  to  see  her  attributed  the  cure,  with 
the  subsequent  death,  to  excessive  reaction  ;  but  the 
miracle  was  none  the  less  authentic,  and  the  incre- 
dulity of  the  doctor  brought  him  into  trouble. 

Madame  C and  Madame  B are  thorough 

Frenchwomen,  hating  to  be  bored,  and  yearning  for 

Paris — the  very  opposite  of  Madame   X at   la 

Fleche.  The  latter  came  from  Amiens,  but  has  be- 
come Flemish — a  calm,  cool-blooded,  common-sense, 
placid  lady,  wholly  absorbed  in  her  household  and 
.children. 

Another  curious  type  is  the  Principal  of  the  College, 
a  former  usher,  professor,  vice-principal.  In  fact,  he 
has  been  here  for  a  quarter  of  a  century,  being  a 
native  of  these  parts,  and  married  a  wife  here.  He 
has  just  been  decorated,  because  a  pupil  from  the 
Lycee  took  first  honours  in  the  national  competition. 
He  has  the  figure  and  face  of  a  retired  haberdasher, 
a  smart  vendor  of  Rouen  cottons,  up  to  all  the  tricks 
of  the  trade,  an  attendant  at  mass,  and  a  reader  of 
the  Charivari,  bent  on  getting  on,  but  keeping  within 


POITIERS  153 

the  traces.  His  highest  pleasure  is  to  sit  down  with 
his  family  to  a  melon  ;  he  makes  little  fuss,  but  bears 
his  joke  patiently,  never  protesting ;  a  man  of  routine 
by  birth  and  disposition,  with  a  discreet  smile  and 
spiritless  eyes ;  squarely  dressed  in  a  good  black 
coat,  and  standing  squarely  on  his  big  feet — the 
most  ordinary,  serviceable,  steady-going,  commonplace 
man,  as  vulgar  and  clean  as  a  new-swept  pavement. 

Here,  as  at  la  Fleche  and  everywhere  else,  people 
pick  other  to  pieces.  The  official  class  live  together 
like  cats  and  dogs  ;  for  want  of  a  wider  outlook,  the 
ordinary  pricks  and  stings  of  humanity  are  turned 
into  hard  blows.  I  have  heard  intimate  friends 
exchanging  the  most  atrocious  scandals.  And  to 
make  their  stories  interesting  they  embroider  them, 
exaggerate  them,  point  them  with  witticisms.  The 
harder  you  hit,  the  more  you  are  amusing. 


ARCACHON. 

I  LEFT  Poitiers  by  an  excursion  train.  There  was 
an  amazing  crowd,  especially  of  the  humbler  sort. 
Change  is  curiously  indispensable  to  them.  What  a 
contrast  is  offered  by  our  full,  busy,  varied  life  with 
the  immobility  of  the  Middle  Age !  The  more  one 
thinks  of  it,  the  more  one  sees  how  completely  the 
ideas  of  humanity  have  been  transformed.  The 
deeper  electric  passions,  which  used  to  be  so  excessive 
and  so  persistent,  are  growing  rare,  if  not  impossible. 
Set  your  fifteenth-century  weaver,  in  his  cellar  at 
Bruges,  joining  himself  to  the  Lollards,  by  the  side 
of  the  Breton  peasant  of  to-day — himself  sufficiently 
in  contrast  with  the  typical  conscript. 

In  my  carriage  there  are  sundry  female  types. 
There  is  a  mother  doting  on  her  boy,  possibly  because 
marriage  has  not  satisfied  her  heart.  She  is  spoiling 
him,  calling  him  her  jewel  and  her  darling,  stroking 
him  with  her  hand,  taking  his  hand  in  her  lap,  brood- 
ing over  him  still,  though  he  must  be  eighteen.  She 
has  but  one  thought — to  make  him  a  gentleman,  and 

154 


ARCACHON  155 

to  keep  him  by  her  side  as  long  as  possible.  She 
wants  him  to  study  law  for  a  year  at  Bordeaux  ;  and, 
as  for  him,  he  wants  Paris  straight  away,  telling  her 
that  he  must  compete  for  the  chief  law  prize  in  the 
Paris  Faculty.  He  is  a  pallid,  lymphatic  gadabout, 
accustomed  to  flattery,  responding  with  coolness  to 
his  mother's  warmth,  and  brushing  off  her  caresses 
like  a  troublesome  insect.  He  is  vexed  at  having 
left  his  glass  behind ;  then  he  tells  her  how  he  tried 
an  experiment  with  nitrate  of  silver  on  a  chamber- 
maid, to  see  if  her  skin  would  turn  black.  Ah ! 

By  his  side  is  a  cousin  of  twenty-eight,  poor,  un- 
married, to  her  own  disgust,  thinking  much  of  her 
appearance,  well  able  to  talk,  knowing  how  to  turn  a 
compliment,  a  woman  of  the  world,  unattached  and 
very  handsome,  with  a  Greek  chin,  a  straight  well- 
shaped  nose,  fine  black  eyes  with  a  fluid  film  of  blue, 
white  hands,  trimmed  nails — a  splendid  woman  who 
has  missed  her  chance.  The  further  one  advances 
towards  the  South,  the  more  helpless  a  woman  be- 
comes through  timidity,  blushing  modesty,  delicate 
reserve.  They  are  types  of  man. 

Perhaps  it  is  that  woman,  in  the  long  run,  is 
modelled  upon  the  needs  of  man.  In  the  North,  and 
in  the  Germanic  race,  man  must  command,  and 
knows  how  to  do  it ;  he  needs  domestic  peace ;  and 
besides,  he  is  cold  by  temperament.  Thus,  the 


156  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

influence  of  woman  is  less  ;  she  is  compelled  to  yield 
more,  and  yields  as  she  is  compelled. 

On  the  other  hand,  different  virtues  gain  import- 
ance and  predominance,  according  to  considerations 
of  climate  and  constitutions.  Thus  in  the  North 
you  find  cool  reflection,  common  sense,  all  the  habits 
of  calculation  and  self-control  which  are  necessary 
to  the  battle  of  life,  all  that  naturally  goes  with  a 
sluggish  disposition  and  a  cold  temperament ;  and 
in  the  South  a  spirit  of  improvisation,  daring, 
brilliancy,  all  that  harmonises  with  a  lively  action 
and  sensation.  Now  the  woman's  disposition  adds 
to  that  of  the  man  a  higher  degree  of  sensibility, 
improvisation,  emotion,  invention,  and  nervous  crav- 
ing. It  follows  that  women  fall  lower  and  become 
more  dependent  in  the  North,  where  these  qualities 
are  less  serviceable,  and  that  they  rise  higher,  to 
equality  and  even  superiority,  in  the  South,  where 
these  qualities  are  more  serviceable.  A  Parisian 
woman,  versed  in  intrigue  or  at  home  in  the  salons, 
to-day  as  under  Louis  XV.,  or  one  like  Stendhal's 
Sanseverina1  is  the  equal  or  the  superior  of  any  man. 
A  woman  in  the  North,  on  the  other  hand,  would 
find  herself  out  of  her  depth  if  she  had  to  control 
fifty  clerks,  or  if  she  had  to  face  bankruptcy,  or  to 

1  In  the  Chartreuse  de  Par  me. 


ARCACHON  157 

argue  about  tariffs,  taxes,  political  economy,  or  the 
like.  Life  and  dispositions  in  the  South  take  a 
more  feminine  aspect,  and  women  are  more  at 
home,  and  exert  their  sway. 

Arcachon  is  a  comic-opera  village,  with  its  pier  of 
red,  yellow  and  green,  roofs  perked  up  like  Chinese 
bells,  a  league  of  ground  covered  with  three  lines  of 
cottages,  painted  chalets  with  balconies  running  round 
them,  pointed  pavilions,  Gothic  turrets,  more  roofs 
elaborate  with  painted  wood.  Amongst  the  pines, 
on  the  sandhills  behind,  are  chalets  of  a  better  class. 
There  is  a  vast  number  of  restaurants,  wooden 
palings,  shops,  all  new  and  varnished,  like  a  per- 
petual Asnieres  Fair.  Land  on  the  shore  is  worth 
fifteen  francs  a  metre.  Twenty  years  ago  you  could 
have  had  half  the  sea-front  for  2000  francs. 

I  took  a  trip  on  a  steamboat,  which  crossed  the 
bay  to  Goulet.  One  soon  forgets  the  human  swarm, 
and  thinks  of  nothing  but  water,  sand,  and  sky. 
Right  and  left,  to  a  great  distance,  almost  out  of 
sight  on  the  limits  of  the  horizon,  the  sandhills 
prolong  their  undulations,  monotonously  rounded, 
just  as  the  wind  and  the  waves  have  made  them. 
They  are  constantly  crumbling ;  in  the  protected 
spots  it  has  been  necessary  to  employ  fir-wattles 
and  clay  to  support  them.  All  other  sounds  are 


158  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

silent;  the  imagination  retains  only  that  incessant 
murmur  of  falling,  crumbling,  accumulating  sands. 
Their  long  ribs  fringe  the  blue  water  with  a  sodden, 
staring  white ;  they  do  not  sparkle,  but  no  finer 
setting  could  be  found  for  the  sea  than  this  con- 
spicuous white.  The  pine-forests  undulate  above 
the  hills  of  sand.  There  is  no  other  tree ;  nothing 
meets  the  eye  but  this  green  of  the  firs,  as  uncom- 
promising as  the  whiteness  of  the  sand.  The  living 
fringe  of  forest  rises  and  falls,  and  in  the  background 
recedes  incessantly,  with  many  a  sudden  drop  and 
crest,  and  many  an  irregular  sky-line.  A  faint 
aromatic  odour  proceeds  from  this  mass  of  verdure, 
and  mingles  with  the  briny  breath  of  ocean.  Mean- 
while the  grey-blue  water,  fringed  here  and  there 
with  silver,  heaves  within  its  girdle  of  white  plains 
and  green  forests.  The  port  is  a  fine  natural  harbour, 
in  which  tranquil  barks  may  crowd  together  and  be 
at  rest  from  the  violent  billows.  Every  now  and 
then  a  floating  medusa  sails  past  under  its  ample 
hood,  and  with  a  web  of  tentacles  outspread,  like 
enormous  mushrooms  tossed  to  and  fro  by  the  limpid 
water. 

This  is  the  spectacle  witnessed  by  the  first  of 
human  kind :  a  virgin  soil ;  sand  and  sand  again ; 
pines  and  pines  again  ;  reeds,  festoons  of  climbing 
plants  from  one  resinous  trunk  to  another ;  a  land 


ARCACHON  159 

unbroken,  a  mere  ocean  deposit,  clothed  by  a  single 
species   of  plants;    and   beyond,   the   great   sea,   its 
mother,  enfolding  it  in  her  arms,  and  the  dazzling 
sky    of    luminous    white,    charging    its    veins   with 
perfume  and  sap.     All  around  are  marshes,  glisten- 
ing   patches    of    sand,    now    covered     by    the    sea, 
now  bare   again,  with   never  a  sign  of  human  life; 
a  crude,  naked  work,  rude  primitive  vegetation  on 
the  deserted  bed  of  the  primitive  ocean.     When  the 
first  voyagers  came  hither  in  their  canoes  they  found, 
it  may  be,  a  few  herons,  a  seagull,  a  hawk  such  as 
that  which  hovered  a  minute  ago  over  the  blue  waves, 
amidst  the  splendour  of  the  rays  that  diffuse  them- 
selves in  the  whiteness.      They  landed ;   their   feet, 
.  like  ours,  sank  into  the  beach ;  they  heard  the  same 
sonorous    chant    of   the    pine    summits ;    they   felt 
the   pine-needles   crackling   underfoot;   wondered  at 
the   white   soil  which  at  every  step  breaks  through 
the   thin   carpet   of    green ;    half  shuddered   at   the 
strangely  audible  silence  ;  paused  before  some  enor- 
mous  thunder-blasted   pine,  standing  upright   on   a 
bare  sandhill.     The  land  has  scarcely  changed  since 
they  came ;  and  it  is  a  sight  which  soothes  one  after 
the    vast,    formal,   subdivided    kitchen-garden,   with 
keepers  perpetually  on  the  watch,  that  extends  all 
the  way  from  Poitiers  to  Toulouse. 

Yet,  kitchen-garden  as  it  was,  it  produced  in  me 


1 60  JO  URNE  YS  THRO  UGH  FRANCE 

last  night  a  somewhat  mad  sensation.  I  was  alone 
in  my  carriage  for  four  hours,  and  watched  the 
hedges,  the  trees,  the  vines,  the  crops,  as  they 
rushed  past.  The  wheels  rolled  round  incessantly, 
with  a  deep  monotonous  roar,  like  the  prolonged 
droning  of  an  organ.  Every  worldly  idea,  every- 
thing that  was  human  and  social,  vanished  away. 
I  saw  nothing  but  the  sun  and  the  earth,  an  adorned 
and  laughing  earth,  wholly  green,  and  with  a  verdure 
so  diversified,  so  widespread,  so  exulting  in  the  soft 
shower  of  warm  caressing  rays.  The  air  was  so  pure, 
the  light  so  amply  spread,  the  country  so  full  of 
bloom  and  happiness.  At  every  oak,  every  chestnut 
that  passed  me  by,  each  with  its  individual  aspect 
and  its  little  world  of  companions  and  neighbours, 
I  was  affected  as  at  the  meeting  of  a  living  creature. 
I  felt  inclined  to  cry  aloud  : 

"  It  goes  well  with  you.  You  are  a  beautiful  mighty 
oak  !  You  are  strong  ;  you  rejoice  in  the  luxuriance 
and  splendour  of  your  foliage." 

Every  birch  and  ash  seemed  to  me  like  some 
delicate  creature,  some  pensive  woman  whose  thought 
no  man  had  divined  —  that  timid  and  gracious 
thought  which  reached  my  ear  from  the  whispering 
and  quivering  of  their  slender  boughs.  There  was 
a  sweet  dallying  of  trees  in  the  shady  dells,  on  the 
russet  and  violet  carpet  of  heath,  in  the  winding 


ARCACHON  l6l 

paths  with  the  narrow  ribbons  of  sand,  on  the  banks 
of  a  little  spring  which  darkened  the  soil  amongst 
the  boulders,  and  fell  in  a  little  cataract  of  sparkling 
drops.  It  was  but  a  sudden  idea,  an  unchecked 
fancy,  a  childish  sport,  the  jest  of  an  infant  god 
laughing  in  reckless  mood. 

Out  beyond  this  plain  of  green  vineyards,  01 
scattered  trees  which  shone  and  sparkled  in  the 
sun,  the  blue-grey  hills  bore  their  forest  to  the  limits 
of  the  sky,  like  a  circle  of  ancestral  growths,  more 
dense  and  stern,  yet  rejoicing  beneath  their  veil  of 
gilded  vapour.  From  the  upper  tiers  of  the  amphi- 
theatre they  gazed  down  upon  their  children,  upon 
their  young  and  handsome  posterity  of  cultured, 
fruitful  growths,  which  mingled  together,  sorted  them- 
selves, divided  into  groups,  each  under  its  crown 
of  flowers,  with  its  cluster  of  grapes  or  its  basket  of 
fruit. 


TOULOUSE. 

PROVINCIAL  life  soon  deteriorates  the  individual. 
What  a  change  fifteen  years  of  married  life  have 

made  in  Madame  L .     She  gets  red  after  dinner  ; 

she  has  three  chins ;  is  fuller  in  her  figure  and  deeper 
in  complexion.  And  how  she  talks !  Journalese 
about  the  selfish,  grasping  English  who  rob  us  of 
our  colonies ;  satisfaction  that  her  husband  does 
not  hunt,  ride,  or  fish,  and  so  put  his  life  in  danger ; 
all  the  solicitude  of  a  nurse  for  her  children,  with  a 
nurse's  grumbling  over  the  slavery  which  it  implies. 
She  was  full  of  her  working  routine,  of  desire  to  see 
her  husband  promoted,  even  if  they  had  to  live  six 
years  at  Quimper  or  Draguignan.  F was  describ- 
ing two  houses  which  he  visits.  In  one  there  are 
four  daughters  who  make  all  their  own  clothes,  even 
to  their  shoes,  and  he  meets  them  at  balls.  In  the 
other,  the  lady  of  the  house  has  a  taste  for  hats,  and 
makes  a  dozen  in  the  year  for  her  friends  as  well 
as  for  herself.  These  are  all  society  folk. 

Englishmen  are   quite  right  when   they   say   that 

162 


TOULOUSE  163 

neither  trade  nor  domestic  cares  are  degrading  in 
themselves,  and  that  one  may  be  high-minded  and 
large-hearted  over  the  mending  of  stockings  or  casting 
up  of  accounts.  But  it  is  the  consequences,  the  slow 
results  of  such  occupations,  which  imply  deteriora- 
tion. One  ceases  to  read  or  to  travel,  shuts  oneself 
up  in  a  narrow  circle,  is  afraid  to  take  liberal  views, 
thinks  of  nothing  but  the  education  and  dowries  of 
one's  children.  Leisure  and  independence  are  neces- 
sary to  one's  full  development. 

The  more  I  see  of  France,  the  more  she  seems 
to  have  the  constitution  that  suits  her.  Yesterday, 
in  the  Revue  Germanique,  Milsand  was  condemning 
the  article  in  the  Code  which  requires  the  consent 
of  parents  before  marriage.  Nobody  seems  to  lay 
sufficient  stress  on  the  physiological  difference 
between  different  races. 

We  are  Gauls,  needing  to  be  brought  into  line, 
and  we  have  our  ideals  of  brilliant  devotion  and 
chivalrous  courage.  Alexandre  Dumas  saw  and 
illustrated  this  disposition  to  perfection.  To  divert 
oneself,  to  gossip,  to  be  social,  to  jest,  see  the  play, 
make  love  to  pretty  women,  to  sup  and  laugh  with 
one's  mistress,  to  fight  cheerfully  and  promptly,  to  be 
enthusiastic  for  a  leader,  or  at  any  rate  to  obey  him 
like  a  schoolmaster  or  policeman,  to  leave  one's  duty 


1 64       JO URNE  YS  THRO  UGH  FRANCE 

undone,  or  to  do  more  than  one's  duty,  to  be  pro- 
digal, to  sacrifice  one's  self  in  a  glorious  cause,  or  a 
cause  which  one's  companions  declare  to  be  glorious, 
to  make  no  difficulty  about  submitting  to  dis- 
cipline and  barrack-life — all  this  is  characteristically 
French. 

Yesterday  I  saw  the  recruits  in  their  quarters. 
They  are  lively  fine-looking  fellows,  fond  of  all 
kind  of  games ;  they  climb  ropes  and  swing  on 
trapezes,  they  show  each  other  a  lead,  they  spring 
about  like  young  dogs,  or  rabbits.  The  sergeants 
and  the  lieutenant  are  obeyed  instantaneously,  without 
servility  or  bad  temper.  The  officer  is  their  natural 
leader,  respected  and  attended  to  on  his  own  merits,, 
without  any  difficulty.  During  one  of  our  revolutions 
a  little  stripling  from  the  Polytechnic  School  posted 
a  gigantic  porter  or  butcher  on  sentry  duty,  and 
gave  him  his  watchword.  "  Right,  Captain,"  said 
the  giant  to  the  dwarf,  "your  experience  is  good 
enough  for  me."  It  was  the  experience  of  one  day  ; 
but  the  dwarf  wore  uniform  and  a  sword.  The  cari- 
cature is  apt  enough. 

From  all  that  I  can  see  of  the  army,  its  organisa- 
tion is  excellent.  There  is  economy,  regularity, 
foresight ;  there  are  stores  and  markets ;  each  man 
is  utilised  according  to  his  ability,  one  as  a  baker, 
another  as  a  shoemaker,  another  as  a  cook ;  all  are 


TOULOUSE  165 

trained  to  honour  and  obedience ;  many  learn  to  read, 
write,  and  sing ;  everyone  goes  in  for  gymnastics,  for 
expeditions,  for  talking,  and  keeps  body  and  mind 
active.  It  is,  in  short,  a  scheme  of  national  edu- 
cation. 


MONTPELLIER. 

I  CANNOT  visit  the  Fabre  Museum  ;  the  Curator  is 
away. 

I  went  through  the  old  town.  Like  old  Marseilles, 
or  the  towns  of  which  one  gets  but  a  passing  glance, 
such  as  Carcassonne,  Beziers,  Narbonne,  Montpellier 
gives  one  the  idea  of  being  in  another  world.  There 
are  big  stark  buildings,  almost  without  windows, 
grey  and  stained  with  age,  and  reddened  by  the 
sun,  often  surmounted  by  a  tower  as  in  Italy. 
There  are  narrow  streets,  or  rather  lanes,  paved 
with  rough  stones,  sharp  as  knife-blades,  painful  to 
walk  upon  ;  refuse  of  fruit  and  vegetables  in  the 
middle  of  the  streets,  dirty  children.  The  finest 
houses  have  a  forbidding  aspect,  close  guarded  and 
silent  as  cloisters ;  whilst  the  smallest,  the  shops 
and  workmen's  cottages,  throw  their  doors  wide 
open  to  admit  the  air,  a  sort  of  blue  curtain  taking 
the  place  of  the  door.  Grim  darkness  meets  the 
gaze  wherever  there  is  an  opening.  Saucepans,  pots 
of  every  kind,  tools,  garments,  a  heap  of  baby-linen, 

166 


MONTPELLIER  1 67 

are  dimly  visible.  There  is  a  woman  washing  her 
infant,  whilst  another  stands  mutely  looking  on. 
The  sight  is  more  Italian  than  French. 

Some  of  the  poorer  women  do  not  speak  French, 
as  I  found  by  asking  my  way  about.  A  few  years 
ago,  a  young  man  of  title  assured  me  that,  in 
1789,  in  the  house  of  the  principal  magistrate,  his 
great-grandmother  and  most  of  the  other  ladies 
could  only  speak  the  langue  d'Oc. 

The  people  are  very  sing-song  in  their  talk.  You 
might  take  them  for  young  Italians  of  a  lighter 
type.  You  would  hardly  believe,  to  listen  to  them, 
that  they  were  talking  seriously ;  they  are  like  a 
race  of  pretty  babies.  They  display  wonderful 
familiarity  and  audacity.  Their  twelfth-century 
civilisation  was  a  medley  of  precocity,  trickiness, 
and  extravagance.  One  can  easily  understand  how 
they  received  a  discipline  and  masters  from  without. 
They  skip  about  like  perky  sparrows,  intrusive  and 
rash,  chattering,  pecking,  preening  their  feathers, 
sporting  with  each  other,  swaggering  in  and  out  of 
their  cages.  Like  Italy,  this  is  a  played-out  country, 
which  lags  behind  the  others,  and  will  not  come 
abreast  of  them  again,  save  by  foreign  rule  and 
civilisation. 

Nowhere  else  is  the  genuine  bold  type  of  French- 
woman, a  chattering  magpie,  yet  smart  and  shapely, 


1 68  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

with  alert  and  rhythmical  movements,  seen  to  better 
advantage  than  here.  I  come  to  the  same  con- 
clusion as  before.  In  the  South  you  must  live  sen- 
suously, like  a  painter,  love  a  dainty,  well-dressed 
woman,  a  merry  face  under  a  dark  veil  of  hair,  a 
deep  shade  beneath  a  long  grey  wall  that  cuts  sharp 
into  the  living  blue,  exquisite  grapes  that  melt  like 
honey  in  the  mouth :  but  you  must  hide  away  all 
that  is  within  you,  all  meditation,  profound  or 
tender. 

Here  the  beggar  eats  his  honey-grapes ;  every 
poor  devil  has  his  drink  of  pure,  wholesome,  unmixed 
wine,  which  pricks  his  soul  but  does  not  intoxicate 
him.  That  makes  up  for  a  good  many  things,  and 
it  serves  to  create  an  ideal.  A  Norwegian,  a  North 
Englander,  does  not  know  what  this  sensation  means ; 
in  place  of  the  luscious  grape  he  has  at  best  his 
beer,  brandy  and  beef — all  strong  sensations,  modes 
of  filling  and  warmth.  He  has  no  notion  of  pleasure. 
Such  little  elementary  difficulties  amount  to  big 
ones  in  the  end  ;  the  ideal  is  differentiated. 

As  soon  as  the  Gauls  had  tasted  their  first  grape, 
their  first  measure  of  wine,  they  swarmed  away  to 
Italy. 

There  is  the  same  contrast  between  the  two  land- 
scapes. Yesterday,  as  I  came  along  from  Cette,  I 
watched  the  scene  without  intermission.  The  line 


MONTPELLIER  169 

crosses  the  lagoons,  with  the  sea  on  the  right,  the 
broad  salt  marshes  on  our  left,  broken  by  sandbanks 
and  pyramids  of  salt.  These  glaring  white  pyramids 
stand  out  against  the  blue  background  in  extra- 
ordinary relief.  All  around,  as  far  as  the  eye  can 
see,  the  water  heaves  and  swells,  varying  from  red 
to  reddish-brown,  according  to  the  depth  of  the 
underlying  sand,  and  to  brilliant  blue  at  its  deepest, 
shot  with  silver  rays,  spangled  with  a  tinsel  of  gold. 
In  the  background  is  a  long  line  of  plain,  or  of~ 
gently  rising  heights,  tawny  or  tinged  with  blue, 
fairly  deep  in  tone,  as  rich  as  in  Decamps  ;  and  in 
this  vast  obscure  border  there  are  little  white  specks 
of  scattered  houses.  Further  away  still  are  the 
round  backs  of  the  hills,  the  curving  saddle  of  pale 
violet,  and  the  immeasurable  sky,  flecked  with 
downy  clouds  beneath  the  afternoon  sun.  It  is  all 
On  a  grand  scale ;  there  are  but  three  or  four  lines, 
all  architectural  in  their  effect.  It  is  like  an  amphi- 
theatre of  Poussin,  but  there  is  colour  and  richness 
beyond  the  reach  of  Poussin. 

Here  one  might  return  to  the  noble  life  of  the 
ancients,  here  found  a  State  that  should  plough  the 
sea,  or  fight,  or  create  an  art.  Whereas  the  little 
valleys  and  tilled  fields  of  the  North,  the  sheltered 
inland  nooks,  the  orchards  and  corn-lands,  are  ideal 
homes  for  peasants  and  farmers. 


170  JOURNEYS  THROLGH  FRANCE 

It  is  the  sea  which  ennobles  everything.  Between 
the  line  and  the  surf  there  was  but  the  ancient 
foreshore,  covered  with  prickly  tamarisks  and  mauve- 
coloured  heath,  with  yellow  sand  conspicuous  here 
and  there.  At  the  limit  of  the  foreshore,  the  rugged 
border-line  cuts  clear  into  a  deep  and  sombre  blue. 
It  is  She — blue  as  any  grape  on  this  cluster  which 
hangs  in  the  cooling  breeze.  The  azure  deepens, 
filling  up  a  good  half  of  the  range  of  sight.  The 
white  sail  of  a  fishing-smack  floats  alone,  like  a 
hollow  shell ;  the  eternal  monotone  of  Ocean  is 
borne  upon  the  ear.  Draw  near  and  see  the  leaping 
silver  foam.  Above  the  intense  blue  the  sky  is 
transparently,  superbly  pale,  and  the  stars  are 
hurrying  to  light  their  lamps.  There  is  not  a  living 
soul,  nor  a  plant,  nor  any  sign  of  the  hand  of  man. 
There  might  be  Nereids  and  Fauns  dancing  on  the 
strand,  as  in  the  days  when  the  world  was  young. 


MARSEILLES. 

THE  sea  is  virginal,  blue  under  the  pale  blue  of  the 
sky,  enclosed  by  a  girdle  of  white  rocks.  Divine  are 
its  hues,  so  chaste  and  sparkling,  so  pure  and  luminous 
and  lovely,  a  bride's  trimmed  robe  of  lustrous  silk,  a 
robe  for  the  fairest  of  her  sex.  The  rough  zone  of 
marble  helps  to  bring  out  this  exquisite  tint ;  its 
vigorous  white  stands  prominent  against  the  glowing 
azure.  Above,  the  grand  dome  of  heaven,  pale  by  its 
very  brightness,  illumines  the  whole  amphitheatre. 

The  structure  of  the  rock  is  an  added  beauty;  it 
might  be  fragments  of  marble  kneaded  together 
under  some  enormous  pressure.  It  is  stratified  in 
courses,  like  stages  of  half-ruined  towers.  Some  are 
sloped,  and  remind  one  of  the  remains  of  marble 
palaces  built  by  Roman  Emperors  or  Babylonian 
Kings.  The  divergent  lines,  the  innumerable  fractures, 
the  infinitely  diverse  angles  of  the  slopes,  catch  the 
light,  and  relieve  the  bareness  of  the  great  white 
walls  with  fantastic  arabesques.  The  very  mountains 
look  as  though  they  had  been  broken  by  mighty 

171 


172  JOURNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

blows,  and  their  ridges  and  promontories,  their  hap- 
hazard-pointed indentations,  their  bristling  spines  and 
crests,  throw  so  many  separate  shadows  upon  the 
luminous  sky.  All  is  full  of  life ;  the  whole  chain  of 
mountains  is  peopled  with  form  and  colour. 

In  the  east,  on  the  horizon's  edge,  the  outermost 
saddles,  shrouded  and  immersed  in  imperceptible 
haze,  are  almost  indistinguishable  from  the  sky. 
Unless  you  fix  your  eyes  upon  them  you  cannot  dis- 
entangle their  shape,  which  seems  to  slip  from  sight 
like  an  over-delicate  etching.  And  all  is  sinking  into 
slumber,  as  the  light  fades  down  into  a  suffused  tint 
of  violet  and  rose. 

The  day  before  yesterday  at  sunset,  yesterday  from 
the  barrack  windows,  the  sea  was  like  a  polished 
mirror  in  a  framework  of  ebony ;  the  light  flashed 
upon  me  as  though  it  came  from  a  shield  of  silver  or 
steel.  I  saw  the  hulls  of  the  far-off,  motionless  ships, 
for  all  the  world  as  if  they  had  been  frozen  where 
they  stood.  As  the  sun  sank  down,  the  horizon 
glowed  and  lightened  like  a  topaz,  or  a  precious  gem 
of  orange  and  red.  Underneath  that  luminous 
yellow  the  eye  dipped  into  sombre  blue,  and  the 
mingling  of  hues  was  like  an  exquisite  chord  of 
sound.  It  was  all  splendour  and  happiness.  There 
sprang  up  a  caressing  breeze,  exquisitely  sweet  and 
cool.  I  was  absorbed  as  I  looked  at  the  innumerable 


MARSEILLES  173 

ripples,  the  heaving  breasts  of  the  waves,  the  insetting 
foamy  billows  that  broke  upon  the  shining  beach 
with  flash  of  silver  and  purpling  tints. 

In  M.  Talabot's  park  to-day,  I  spent  a  delightful 
half-hour,  my  soul  transfused  by  the  Lotos  Eaters  of 
Tennyson.  In  a  hollow  of  the  pine- woods,  thick 
with  aromatic  odour,  the  light  of  heaven  was  toned 
down  by  the  dull  and  feeble  green  of  the  fine  needles. 
Its  azure  was  inexpressibly  soft,  and  the  silent  foot- 
paths glimmered  white  amidst  the  livid  trunks. 

Marseilles  is  monumental  and  grandiose ;   its  life  is 
fuller  and  more  spacious  than  that  of  Paris.     They 
have  dug  out  and  carried  away  more  than  one  hill ; 
their  City  Hall  cost  them  twelve  million  francs ;   the 
Saint-Charles  Barracks  is  a  vast  pile,  surmounted  by  a 
dome  and  constructed  with  wings,  whilst  its  carvings 
alone   account   for    three   hundred   thousand   francs. 
The   Durance    Canal   is   carried   over    an   aqueduct 
more  vast   than  any  built  by  the  Romans.     It  cost 
forty  million  francs ;  it  supplies  water  to  the  whole 
city ;  it  pours  running  streams  of  muddy  water  into 
every  street  along  the  hillsides.     The  plains  on  either 
side  of  it  are  green   beneath  a  burning  sun,  after  a 
rainless  summer  of  four  months ;  the  Crau  itself  is 
becoming  fertile.      From  the   summit  of  the  Cane- 


1/4  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

biere,  which  is  flanked  by  enormous  houses,  a  veritable 
fortress  of  architecture,  one  looks  down  upon  a  forest 
of  masts.  Two  large  harbours  are  being  excavated 
on  the  right. 

It  is  the  most  prosperous  and  magnificent  of  Latin 
cities.  Nothing  like  it  has  been  seen  on  the  Medi- 
terranean shores  since  the  most  famous  days  of 
Alexandria,  Rome,  or  Carthage.  It  is  a  characteristic 
southern  maritime  city,  such  as  the  creations  of  the 
ancient  colonies.  It  is  a  harbour  closed  in  by  naked 
rocks,  which  have  neither  natural  water  nor  trees. 
There  is  nothing  attractive  but  the  sparkling  blue  sea, 
and  the  bold  lines  of  mountains  bathed  in  light. 

The  town  itself  is  an  ant-heap,  full  of  bustle  and 
cheerfulness,  with  superb  showy  mansions,  resplendent 
cafes,  lined  with  mirrors  and  paintings,  silk  dresses 
sweeping  the  dust  in  the  streets,  bold  handsome 
women,  full  of  pluck  and  pride,  brightly  painted 
luxurious  carriages,  drawn  by  dashing  high-stepping 
horses.  In  the  evening  a  close-packed  noisy  crowd 
collects  in  a  score  of  broad  promenades,  bordered  by 
rows  of  luxuriant  plane-trees,  amidst  the  lights  and 
fountains,  chatting  and  gesticulating,  in  and  out  of 
the  shows,  casinos,  cafes  chantants  and  open-air 
theatres.  Display,  gambling,  and  the  society  of 
women  are  the  three  ruling  ideas  of  the  good  folk 
of  Marseilles.  I  am  told  on  all  sides  that  they 


MARSEILLES  175 

care  for  nothing  but  to  make  money  and  take  their 
pleasure. 

In  the  evening  I  spent  half  an  hour  in  a  music- 
hall.  It  is  hung  all  over  with  mirrors,  and  its 
extravagant  display  and  excess  of  brilliancy  are  by 
no  means  grateful.  What  a  contrast  they  afford  to 
the  clubs  in  Belgium  and  the  drinking  saloons  of 
Strasbourg  !  Here  all  is  sacrificed  to  the  Boulevard. 
The  music  is  absolutely  insipid,  emphatic  and  in- 
sipid as  the  violet  wine  which  is  drunk  at  the 
bar — new  songs,  a  sentimental  ditty  on  the  heroine 
of  Vaucouleurs,  commonplace  love-scenes,  with  words 
and  music  on  the  same  poor  level  of  taste.  What 
the  people  go  to  see  are  the  showily  but  scantily 
dressed  women.  One  of  them,  quite  young,  with  a 
blue  dress  and  a  remarkable  bodice,  adorned  with 
buttons  like  a  hussar's  jacket,  had  a  great  success. 
At  every  burst  of  applause  she  bowed  low,  so  as 
to  exhibit  a  very  white  bust.  This  is  all  purse- 
proud  swagger;  these  are  the  joys  of  shopkeepers 
who  have  worked  and  made  money  all  day  out  of 
flour  and  oil. 

A  striking  feature  in  this  part  of  the  country  is 
the  dimness  of  the  colours ;  the  light  Is  so  strong 
that  it  deadens  them.  From  my  high-perched  room 
this  morning  I  gazed  down  on  the  pale  red  tiles 


1 76  JO URNE  YS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

of  the  roofs,  looking  as  though  they  had  been  slowly 
and  incompletely  baked.  The  leaves  of  the  plane- 
trees  are  covered  with  dust ;  in  the  country  and 
the  neighbouring  towns,  all  the  walls  are  dull  and 
monotonous,  as  if  they  were  caked  with  dust.  At 
Aix,  where  I  went  this  morning,  everything  is  dulled 
to  the  sight ;  the  city,  like  the  district  through  which 
I  had  passed,  was  a  patch  of  grey  under  a  little  flood 
of  fire,  beneath  the  monotony  of  an  implacable 
blue.  It  is  a  strange  city,  dead  or  dying  in  its 
sluggard's  sleep,  full  of  old  houses  with  grilled 
windows,  solemn  fagades,  broad  stairs  reckoned  for 
presidential  robes,  banisters  of  wrought  iron,  and 
vast  salons  with  ante-chambers,  in  which  a  crowd 
of  lackeys  used  to  loll  at  their  ease. 

I    visited   a   former  President,  M.    C ,  who    is 

deaf,  but  vivacious  in  body  and  mind.  He  is  a 
Liberal,  an  admirer  of  the  English,  and  a  decided 
foe  to  Catholicism.  His  wife's  family,  one  of  the 
best  in  Marseilles,  which  once  had  an  income  of 
^200,000  a  year,  has  been  sucked  dry,  as  he  said, 
by  the  craft  of  the  ecclesiastics,  by  donations,  dowries 
given  to  daughters  on  entering  a  convent,  and  the 
like.  His  wife  recently  gave  50,000  francs  towards 
building  a  church.  When  he  retired,  not  knowing 
what  to  do,  he  spent  his  time  on  sheep-breeding, 
and  brought  himself  to  ruin. 


MARSEILLES 

M.  Lerambert,  examiner  for  the  Naval  School, 
who  is,  like  me,  on  his  tour  of  inspection,  is  also 
much  struck  by  the  predominance  of  the  clergy. 
The  priests  are  the  true  masters  of  the  provinces. 
Druids  under  Caesar,  bishops  under  Clovis,  Pepin, 
Hugh  Capet,  Louis  the  Fat,  and  afterwards  so 
powerful  under  Louis  XIV.  and  Napoleon,  have 
always  had  France  under  their  thumb.  The  lack 
of  moral  and  intellectual  initiative,  the  talent  for 
administration  and  submission,  the  notion  of  order 
and  unity — in  short,  the  ideas  of  Bossuet — are  Gallic, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  Latin.  M.  Lerambert  says 
that  their  pupils  are  entering  the  army  and  navy 
in  continually  larger  numbers.  There  is  no  one 
to  compete  with  them,  for  their  education  is  not 
general  for  all  alike,  as  ours  in  the  Lycees,  but 
suited  to  the  needs  of  the  individual.  They  make 
friends  of  their  boys ;  the  teachers,  free  from  family 
cares,  are  governed  by  a  feeling  of  corporate  union  ; 
their  thoughts  and  efforts  are  devoted  to  the  success 
of  their  colleges ;  and  having  no  domestic  ties, 
they  bestow  their  paternal  tenderness  and  friend- 
ship on  their  pupils.  Lamartine  bears  witness  to 
their  success,  and  compares  their  colleges  with  ours. 
Young  men  escape  from  their  influence  between 
the  ages  of  twenty  and  thirty-five,  thanks  to  Paris 

and   the   newspapers ;    but   they   return   when    they 

M 


JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

marry,  and  acquire  property,  and  think  about  the 
bringing  up  of  their  children.  Their  wives  also 
urge  them  to  renew  their  allegiance.  The  priests 
are  well  aware  that  human  affections,  the  reminis- 
cences of  childhood,  and  private  interests,  are 
stronger  than  abstract  ideas.  They  know  that  the 
mood  will  change,  and  that  a  man  will  follow  the 
course  which  leads  him  back  into  their  arms.  Even 
before  this,  he  has  belonged  to  them  for  half  the 
interval  ;  the  minds  which  are  faithful  to  abstract 
ideas  are  so  few!  And  how  few  of  the  young 
officers  read  or  think  for  themselves !  One  of  these, 
whom  I  met  here  twelve  months  ago,  and  who  spoke 
to  me  about  Kenan's  book,  had  caught  up  the  word 
"  romance,"  which  the  priests  have  used  in  order 
to  discredit  it.  Their  family  ties  and  connections 
restrain  them. 

"  That  would  make  trouble  at  home,"  said  one. 
"  I  prefer  not  to  read,  to  think  of  other  things,  to 
go  into  society  and  amuse  myself." 


PROVENCE. 

THIS  year  I  have  seen  Provence  in  a  drought ;  it  has 
not  rained  for  four  months. 

It  is  an  Italy,  the  sister  of  Greece  and  Spain,  as 
was  evident  enough  in  the  twelfth  century,  from  its 
language,  its  genius,  and  its  literature.  The  contrast 
begins  at  Lyons,  with  its  green  hues,  its  mist,  its  full 
or  overflowing  rivers,  the  rain  which  floods  the  streets, 
the  factories  full  of  steady,  hard-working  artisans, 
swarming  as  they  do  in  London. 

Apart  from  Marseilles  and  the  sea,  this  Provence 
is  a  gloomy  land  ;  you  might  imagine  it  to  be  burnt 
up,  worn  out,  gnawed  to  the  bone  by  a  civilisation 
which  has  fallen  to  decay.  There  are  no  trees  except 
the  occasional  mulberries  and  sickly  olives,  amidst 
myriads  of  boulders,  and  bare,  dried,  whitened  rocks, 
At  times  there  is  as  much  as  a  quarter  of  a  league 
of  naked  and  sterile  land.  On  the  horizon,  the 
unclothed  hills  pile  their  rocky  skeletons  one  above 
another.  Man  has  devoured  everything,  until  there 
is  nothing  left  alive.  Wretched  thorny  plants,  hardy 
little  bushes,  cling  together  in  the  hollows  or  on  the 

179 


180  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

cliffs.  There  is  not  so  much  as  soil — it  has  been 
scratched  and  scraped  away ;  for,  on  the  destruction 
of  the  forests,  the  streams  were  turned  into  torrents, 
and  washed  out  their  beds,  carrying  down  with  them 
all  that  could  have  supported  life.  There  remains  but 
the  primitive  bed-rock  of  the  earth,  and  the  terrible 
sun.  Beyond  Tarascon  we  find  river-beds  without  a 
drop  of  water,  vast  tracts  of  pebbles  and  sand,  over 
which  there  runs  a  bridge  as  a  provision  against 
the  winter  floods  ;  and  on  the  banks  are  towns,  still 
partly  Roman,  which  retain  their  columns,  theatres, 
temples,  circuses,  showing  occasional  Roman  stones 
in  old  erections  of  the  feudal  age,  ancient  carvings 
used  as  building  stones ;  a  sort  of  motley  in  which 
the  old  cloak  of  a  ruined  people  contributes  a  rag 
to  fill  up  a  gap. 

There  have  been  two  destructions  here — of  Rome 
the  mighty,  and  of  the  young  Provence. 

But  the  heavens  endure,  and  by  night  all  is  divine 
as  in  the  early  years.  Between  Marseilles  and  Aix  I 
was  alone  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  evening ;  and  I  saw 
on  my  right  how  the  sea  and  sky  seemed  to  grow 
into  each  other  with  a  marvellous  reinforcement,  as 
if  at  sunset  the  land  had  passed  into  a  sublime  and 
unknown  world.  The  whole  vault  was  a  soft  blue 
of  infinite  sweetness,  like  a  bridal  couch  of  velvet. 
The  moon  rose,  and  her  radiance  created  a  tremulous 


PROVENCE  l8l 

column  of  light  against  the  azure.  The  divine  azure 
glowed  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach ;  and  the  rising 
moon  set  it  daintily  back,  as  though  to  picture  the 
innermost  curtained  sanctity  of  a  silent  nuptial 
chamber. 

Thereupon  came  to  me  certain  wild  ideas.  A  sort 
of  Lucretian  dialogue  flashed  through  my  brain  ;  the 
converse  of  man  with  infinite  nature,  the  drama  of 
humanity,  the  heroic  State  besieged  by  the  brute 
factors  of  the  world,  with  the  combatants  renewed  as 
fast  as  they  fall,  whilst  the  eternal  tragedy  of  life  is 
enacted  amidst  groans  and  cries  of  admiration.  Once 
before,  this  year,  I  had  the  same  sentiment  at 
Florence.1  This  Humanity,  our  mother,  who  lives 
again  in  each  of  us,  is  a  Niobe  whose  children  are 
constantly  falling  under  the  arrows  of  invisible 
archers.  The  wounded  sons  and  daughters  fall 
back  ;  their  life  ebbs  away ;  the  youngest  are  folded 
in  their  mother's  robe ;  one,  still  living,  stretches  vain 
hands  to  the  immortal  assassins.  She,  cold  and 
rigid,  stands  erect  in  her  despair,  and,  raised  for 
an  instant  above  the  feelings  of  her  kind,  sees  with 
horror,  and  yet  with  awe,  the  dazzling,  deadly  cloud, 
the  outstretched  arms,  the  ineluctable  arrows  and  im- 
placable calm  of  the  gods. 

1  "Voyage  en  Italic,"  vol.  ii.  80. 


BOURG    EN    BRESSE. 

THE  CHURCH   OF   BROU. 

THIS  church  was  built  by  Marguerite  of  Austria,  the 
aunt  of  Charles  V.,  to  the  memory  of  her  husband, 
Philibert  the  Handsome  (1506-1536).  It  is  late 
Gothic. 

A  remarkably  rich  and  elaborate  rood-screen  shuts 
in  the  choir,  which  is  an  inner  and  a  second  church, 
more  sacred  and  richly  adorned.  There  are  admirable 
and  wonderful  dark-brown  stalls ;  the  walls  are  lined 
with  statues  of  carved  wood,  with  a  long  top-screen, 
which  is  a  simple  lacework  of  flowers — trefoils,  thorns, 
little  figures,  leaves,  interwoven  stalks  and  buds — a 
marvellous  efflorescence  and  expansion  of  growth. 
Words  cannot  express  the  richness,  the  entangle- 
ment, the  infinite  variety  of  form. 

But  the  three  most  delightful  and  surprising  things 
in  this  church  are  the  tombs  in  the  middle  of  the 
choir — of  Marguerite  of  Burgundy,  Philibert  the  Hand- 
some, and  Marguerite  of  Austria.  Heads  of  monsters, 
heraldic  shields,  grape  clusters,  and  arrangements  of 

182 


BOURG  EN  BRRSSE  1 8$ 

fruit  and  flowers,  twining  acanthus  leaves,  delicate 
little  trefoils,  pretty  wreaths  of  ivy  leaves  and  berries, 
charming  details  of  miniature  bell-turrets  and  Gothic 
domes  surmounting  the  fine  figures  on  the  tombs, 
make  up  a  marvellous  prodigality  of  involved  and 
exquisite  shapes. 

The  moral  significance  of  the  figures  is  very  strik- 
ing. They  are  genuine  fifteenth-century  types, 
thoughtful  and  profound,  taken  from  life  in  a  moment 
of  inspiration,  before  the  paralysing  effect  produced 
by  the  revived  Greek  type,  with  its  academic  uni- 
formity. The  idea  which  they  convey  to  us  is  that 
of  the  manifold  infinitude  of  beauty. 

There  are  as  many  types  as  there  are  situations  to 
underlie  them  and  intellects  to  comprehend  them. 
For  instance,  the  draped  girl  at  the  left  corner  of  the 
tomb  of  Marguerite  of  Burgundy,  tall,  somewhat 
bowed,  with  long  rolls  of  hair  partly  covering  her 
cheeks,  is  resigned  and  delicate,  with  an  air  of  sad 
amazement,  and  the  profoundly  pensive  expression 
that  one  might  see  in  a  refined  lady  of  our  own  day. 
Another,  on  one  of  the  sides,  has  her  foot  on  a  howl- 
ing monster.  Her  hair  is  loose  and  her  hands  are 
folded  ;  she  is  older  than  the  first,  a  strong  and 
noble  woman,  self-collected  and  enduring. 

The  figures  in  the  lower  section  of  the  tomb  are 
little  masterpieces.  One  of  these,  dressed  in  a  tunic 


1 84  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

falling  over  a  long  pleated  robe,  with  a  large  cap  on 
her  head,  is  somewhat  heavy  and  phlegmatic  in  the 
Flemish  style,  yet  very  pleasing  in  her  languid  calm. 
By  her  side  is  a  shrew  of  some  five-and -thirty  years, 
with  pointed  chin,  dress  cut  square  and  low,  and  a 
long-peaked  Norman  hat.  At  one  of  the  corners  is 
a  simple  maiden,  with  a  look  of  wonder  in  her  face, 
delightful  in  her  mediaeval  head-dress,  with  large 
bows  on  either  side  of  her  head.  Another,  with  her 
head  dressed  in  a  similar  manner,  is  the  most  original 
of  all,  with  dainty  chin,  well-cut  lips,  and  the  expres- 
sion of  a  lady  receiving  her  guests.  They  are  all  in 
loose,  admirably-flowing  robes;  and  they  look  as  if 
they  were  about  to  speak. 

Philibert  is  recumbent  on  his  tomb,  in  his  ducal 
cloak  and  armour ;  there  is  a  lion  at  his  feet,  and  six 
lions  surround  him.  Beneath  this  is  his  undraped 
form.  It  is  all  in  white  marble,  a  sculpture  full 
of  life.  There  is  an  effort  at  the  ideal  in  the  little 
angels ;  but  the  limbs  are  not  natural,  the  heads  are 
insipid,  and  the  pose  is  not  altogether  happy.  It  is 
the  same  with  the  ponderous  and  solid  Marguerite 
of  Austria :  it  is  a  conventional  royalty  lying  in  state. 
But  beneath  her  shrouded  form,  the  head  representing 
her  as  a  young  woman,  and  her  splendid  waving  hair, 
are  fine  enough. 

In  the  chapel  on  the  left  the  carved   figures   are 


BOURG  EN  BRESSE  185 

much  ruder  and  more  awkward,  though  they  have 
plenty  of  life,  sincerity,  and  expression,  as,  for  in- 
stance, in  the  salutation  of  the  old  Elizabeth.  In 
the  centre  is  an  Assumption  of  the  Virgin,  with  the 
Eternal  Father,  and  a  choir  of  angels.  It  has  all 
the  triumphant  effect  of  an  Alleluia,  a  Glory  to  God, 
chanted  in  harmony  by  a  thousand  happy  voices. 

Multiplicity  of  forms  and  characters  is  character- 
istic of  mediaeval  art.  The  impression  is  that  of  a 
complete  dramatic  scene,  of  a  world  in  detail.  The 
lofty  art  of  Greece,  on  the  other  hand,  limits  itself  to 
one  or  two  figures. 

How  I  should  have  liked  to  see  this  spontaneous 
Gothic  art  of  the  fifteenth  century,  of  Van  Eyck, 
Memling,  and  the  sculptors  of  Strasbourg  and  Italy, 
developed  apart  from  the  imported  Greek  ideal  and 
the  academic  pedantry !  It  would  have  been  more 
apposite,  refined,  and  vital ;  we  should  then  have 
had  our  Shakspeares  in  sculpture,  architecture,  and 
painting. 


BESANgON. 

EVERYTHING  is  green — the  long  lines  of  wooded  hills 
which  follow  the  course  of  the  river,  the  mountains 
behind  them,  with  their  bold,  steep  outlines,  and  lift- 
ing their  pyramidal  masses  into  the  sky,  and  the 
narrow  strip  of  flat  meadow-land  on  either  bank.  It 
is  a  verdurous  vale  traversed  by  a  blue  stream  broken 
by  the  wind  into  waves  of  emerald-grey.  The  sun  is 
low,  and  though  there  is  laughter  on  the  waving 
forest-tops,  crowned  with  cheerful  light,  the  deep 
interiors  of  the  broken  rock  are  still  immersed  in  dark 
shadow.  Here  and  there,  beneath  a  white  perpen- 
dicular cliff,  like  a  wall  of  marble,  rests  a  long  black 
patch  of  light,  three  hundred  feet  from  the  ground, 
and  extending  for  a  quarter  of  a  league.  "  A  luminous 
mist,  a  sprinkling  of  vapour,  a  pale,  picturesque,, 
transparent  fog  slumbers  over  all  these  grand  forms, 
and  the  verdure,  more  or  less  toned  with  blue,  seems 
to  rest  beneath  a  veil,  ever  deepening  with  the  dis- 
tance. 

In  the  South,  men  do  not  get  the  idea  of  this  virgin 

186 


BESANqON  IS/ 

delicacy  and  universal  freshness.  Here  there  is  no- 
thing which  does  not  smile  and  grow;  and  in  the 
heart  of  this  luxuriant  vegetation  the  river,  fed  by 
many  springs,  flows  on  in  successive  bright  reaches 
in  its  many-coloured  bed,  all  clothed  in  blue,  and 
embroidered  with  spangles  of  gold. 

At  Besanc.on  there  are  sixteen  thousand  men  and 
women  engaged  in  watch-making,  and  the  number 
continually  increases.  They  earn  from  three  to  five 
francs  a  day,  but  sometimes  as  many  as  fifteen.  A 
family  of  eight  earns  between  thirty  and  forty  francs. 
Last  year  the  town  produced  31 1,000  watches.  Many 
of  them  come  from  Geneva,  and  are  Protestants. 
There  is  a  Liberal  anti-Catholic  feeling  which  makes 
itself  felt ;  some  municipal  councils  have  been  turned 
out  as  being  too  clerical.  The  Principal  of  our 
College  more  than  holds  his  own  against  the  ecclesi- 
astical establishments  ;  but  this  is  only  in  the  North- 
east, and  nowhere  else  in  France. 

All  these  Northern  landscapes  are  marked  by  too 
crude  a  green ;  but  the  monotonous  colour  is  toned 
down  a  little  by  the  wandering  white  mists  and  the 
blues  of  the  horizon.  One  thinks  by  contrast  of  the 
roseate,  violet,  iridescent,  golden-yellow  mountains  of 
the  South.  There  is  not  much  here  for  the  artist  who 


1 88  JOURNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

has  an  eye  for  colour ;  these  scenes  appeal  more  to 
the  man  of  thought  than  to  a  natural  sensibility. 
The  landscape  painter  in  the  North  is  compelled  to 
modify  or  transform  the  greens,  to  wait  for  the 
autumn  reds,  the  greys  of  dawn,  the  orange  or  sombre 
tints  of  evening.  When  he  finds  no  natural  harmony, 
he  must  draw  one  from  the  keyboard. 


NANCY. 

THIS  is  the  finest  and  most  pleasant  French  city 
which  I  have  seen.  There  is  nothing  shoppy  about  it  'r 
I  mean  nothing  of  the  smug  and  petty  tradesman 
element.  The  prevailing  fashion  is  that  of  the  fine 
opulent  citizenship  of  the  eighteenth  century,  liberal 
and  calm,  with  no  sharp  practices ;  resting  on  a  basis  of 
hereditary  wealth,  held  in  high  esteem,  with  a  certain 
position,  magnificence,  and  art 

Even  in  the  poorest  streets,  the  medallions  above 
the  doors  are  marked  by  truth  and  expression,  very 
different  from  the  wretched  Neo-Greek  hackneyed 
style,  with  the  inspiration  of  a  modiste,  which  defaces 
the  Rue  de  Rivoli.  They  are  eighteenth-century 
heads,  bright,  cheerful,  refined,  often  a  trifle  sensual, 
but  always  full  of  spirit  and  good  humour. 

These  broad,  regular  streets,  saved  by  their  age 
from  a  stiff  or  conventional  aspect ;  the  fine  square,  so 
grand  and  pompous  ;  the  railings  of  wrought  iron, 
picked  out  with  leaves  of  gold  ;  the  roofs,  edged  with 
balustrades  and  surmounted  by  rows  of  braziers  and 

139 


190  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

statues ;  the  street-vistas  extending  from  the  square 
without  visible  termination  ;  the  avenues  of  ancient 
trees,  and  the  fine  massive  hills  which  surround  the 
city,  give  it  an  appearance  of  grandeur,  or,  at  least,  of 
genuine  dignity. 

A  portico,  a  colonnade,  a  palatial  fagade,  when  it 
has  unity  of  idea,  and  is  not  a  mere  assemblage  of 
separate  notions,  when  it  expresses  the  well-marked 
character  of  an  age,  lifts  the  soul  at  once  above  the 
platitude  of  ordinary  life.  A  provincial  town  like 
this  might  well  be  a  centre  of  influence,  as  Heidelberg, 
for  instance,  is. 

Last  night  I  saw  the  great  church,  with  its  two 
domes  and  richly  decorated  facade,  handsome  and 
attractive  as  the  facade  of  an  ancient  mansion.  It 
fills  one  with  serious  and  lofty  ideas ;  it  makes  one 
look  on  life  as  if  it  were  a  rich  decoration,  an  em- 
broidered velvet  dress,  that  fits  one  well,  and  that  one 
is  glad  to  wear. 

But  the  real  masterpiece  is  the  large  and  handsome 
public  park,  which  is  not  too  English,  not  too 
elaborately  planned.  I  saw  nothing  of  the  suburbs. 
I  had  to  keep  close  at  my  work,  though  occasionally 
between  the  various  examinations  I  walked  in  the 
College  quadrangle,  resting  my  eyes  upon  the  blue 
sky,  between  the  falling  yellow  leaves. 

The  grass  grows  in  the  streets  of  Nancy.     At  eight 


NANCY  191 

in  the  evening  one  makes  out  a  light  here  and  there, 
and  all  around  is  a  deep  inanimate  shadow.  It  is  a 
place  not  unlike  Versailles,  where  one  can  live  very 
comfortably  with  one's  family.  Perhaps,  after  all,  our 
Parisian  life  is  somewhat  unnatural.  It  is,  perhaps, 
a  prolonged  excess  and  enormity  to  live,  as  we  do, 
on  our  brains,  busy  with  literary  schemes,  with  the 
occasional  diversion  of  a  dinner,  an  evening  reception, 
a  talk  over  our  newspapers.  But  we  cannot  re- 
model ourselves  after  twenty  years  of  that  kind  of 
life. 

And  here  they  are  so  bored ;  they  long  so  much 
for  Paris ! 

They  print  a  Liberal  Review  at  Nancy,  called 
Varia.  It  has  no  subscribers.  I  am  told  that  it  is 
better  known  at  Paris  than  here.  At  Metz,  also,  I 
was  told  by  a  bookseller  that  a  book  about  Metz  sold 
in  Paris,  whilst  Metz  itself  purchased  five  copies ! 
There  are  two  or  three  Sanscrit  scholars  at  Nancy. 
It  is  a  forgotten  oasis;  but  they  correspond  with 
other  centres  of  learning  in  Europe.  There  is  a  fine 
library  of  40,000  volumes,  fairly  representative,  with 
modern  books  well  up  to  date.  The  town  gives  2000 
francs  a  year  to  purchase  books.  The  librarian  has 
been  here  forty  years,  having  come  in  1824. 

N ,  a  retired  notary,  who  now  dabbles  in 

literature  and  philology,  conducted  me  over  the 


IQ2  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

museum.  There  is  an  old  staircase  baluster,  finely 
curved,  with  just  the  right  amount  of  decoration. 
I  think  that  in  the  olden  time  they  understood  the 
decoration  of  interiors  better  than  that  of  exteriors. 
They  cared  more  for  pleasure  in  the  house  than  for 
open  air  and  ample  space. 

There  are  three  or  four  things  worth  seeing  in  this 
museum,  amongst  a  number  of  doubtful  works  and 
daubs.  One  of  them  is  a  fine  Philippe  de  Cham- 
paigne.  It  seems  to  me  that  all  these  French  painters 
are  mere  men  of  the  studio,  serious  hard-working 
business  men,  and  not  pure  and  simple  artists,  like 
those  of  Italy.  You  may  find  the  contrast  in  a  grand 
severe  picture  of  Secchi's,  Pope  Sixtus  V.,  borne  in 
his  robes  of  ceremony  by  a  dozen  strong  red-faced 
varlets  wearing  his  livery.  Here  we  have  a  free, 
broad  artistic  idea,  a  large  detail  of  actual  life,  cut 
out  and  transferred  to  canvas,  with  no  philosophy  or 
antecedent  theory,  and  speaking  to  the  mind  only 
through  the  eyes. 

The  gate  from  the  ducal  palace  (fifteenth  century) 
is  charming;  it  is  rich,  decorated,  original,  and 
honest.  The  chapel  containing  their  tombs  is  like 
an  extinguisher,  a  sort  of  high  conical  chimney,  in 
which  two  or  three  hundred  mincing  and  insipid 
angels  rise  up  into  a  pyramid,  like  so  many  rows  of 


NANCY  193 

hams.  The  coffers  containing  the  ashes  resemble 
closed  pepper-boxes,  surmounted  by  a  device  like 
cross-bones  from  a  frog.  But  on  your  left,  as  you 
enter,  there  is  a  rather  fine  figure  of  some  Middle- 
Age  duchess  or  other,  white,  wrinkled,  recumbent  on 
her  tomb,  covered  with  a  dark  mantle,  and  giving 
the  impression  of  eternal  rest. 

At  Metz  the  Jesuits  have  five  hundred  pupils.  General 
deMartimprez  changed  the  regular  time  for  the  military 
band  in  order  that  the  pupils  of  the  Jesuits  might 
hear  it ;  and  so  the  pupils  of  the  Lycee  hear  it  no 
longer.  The  Jesuits  have  other  great  colleges  at 
Paris,  Vaugirard,  Poitiers,  Toulouse,  Lyons,  Amiens, 
and  sundry  smaller  towns.  The  older  Liberals,  the 
magistrates,  engineers,  and  military  men,  send  their 
sons  to  them,  because  it  is  supposed  to  be  the  proper 
thing  to  do;  because  the  food  and  general  regula- 
tions are  said  to  be  superior ;  because  boys  make 
good  acquaintances  there,  likely  to  be  useful  in  the 
future.  In  this  way  an  old  pupil  has  just  made  a 
very  good  match.  Other  reasons  which  I  heard 
were,  that  a  boy's  mother  had  worried  to  have  him 
placed  with  the  Jesuits  until  he  had  made  his 
first  communion,  and  then  worried  to  have  him 
let  alone ;  and  that  the  fathers  make  themselves 
the  comrades  of  their  pupils,  whereas  our  professors 

N 


194  JOURNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

are    cold,   and    the    teachers    are    supposed    to    be 
hostile. 

At  Nancy,  which  is  a  Liberal  town,  twenty-three 
town  councillors  out  of  twenty-nine,  and  three  pro- 
fessors out  of  five,  profess  Catholic  ideas.  There  are 
also  many  religious  foundations,  convents  for  girls, 
a  college  for  law-students,  and  so  on. 

I  had  some  talk  with  Madame  de .     Her  sons 

are  with  the  Jesuits  at  Metz.  They  are  so  successful 
that  they  have  refused  seventeen  pupils  this  year. 
They  captivate  the  mothers  by  making  a  display  of 
maternity.  "  Do  not  be  anxious  about  him,"  one  of 
the  professors  said ;  "  if  he  is  all  alone,  then  I  will  be 
his  father,"  and  he  stroked  the  lad  gently  on  the 
head.  They  win  over  the  children  and  become  their 
comrades,  walking  arm-in-arm  with  them  in  the 
quadrangles,  out  of  school  hours.  The  boys  like 
them,  and,  when  they  grow  up,  come  back  to  see 
them.  There  is  no  compulsory  piety,  but  a  pupil 
who  did  not  receive  the  sacrament  at  Easter  would 
be  sent  away.  As  a  rule,  there  is  confession  once  a 
month,  and  in  this  way  the  priests  gain  their  con- 
fidence and  know  all  their  circumstances.  Then 
again  they  confess  in  the  town,  and  thus  keep  up 
a  connection  with  the  parents.  They  pay  great 
attention  to  the  food,  dress,  and  manners  of  their 


NANCY  195 

pupils.  In  some  of  their  establishments  they  provide 
dancing  and  riding  masters ;  their  aim  is  to  turn  out 
fine  gentlemen.  That  is  another  hold  upon  the 
family,  and  especially  upon  the  women. 

A  father  was  present  at  all  our  examinations,  in 
order  to  hear  the  questions  which  we  put,  so  as  to 
prepare  on  the  same  lines  for  the  subsequent  year. 
Whenever  a  pupil  passed  his  examination,  his  master 
was  there  to  support  him. 

They  send  their  weakest  pupils  to  the  provincial 
centres,  reserving  their  brilliant  ones  for  Paris,  and 
they  are  wonderfully  adroit  in  making  the  most  of 
their  materials.  Thus  gymnastics,  though  counting 
in  the  examinations,  were  found  to  be  generally 
neglected.  They  immediately  put  on  an  excellent 
master,  and  made  daily  drill  compulsory.  In  this 
subject,  accordingly,  their  pupils  were  decidedly 
superior. 


RHEIMS. 

ONLY  the  porch  of  the  Cathedral  is  fully  exposed  to 
view ;  the  north  face  is  partly  exposed.  The  re- 
mainder is  almost  completely  hidden  by  a  heavy- 
looking  episcopal  palace  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
by  lanes  running  close  against  the  Cathedral  walls, 
and  by  a  monstrous  new  erection  of  stone,  a  long 
array  of  barbarous  eye-sores.  What  a  contrast  with 
the  noble  epoch  of  the  year  1200!  That  was  a 
Homeric  age. 

Its  fundamental  idea  was  the  parallel  between 
the  theology  then  taught  by  St  Bernard,  Albertus 
Magnus,  and  St  Thomas  Aquinas,  the  religion  ol 
prose,  and  architecture,  which  is  the  religion  of  the 
imaginative  soul — both  in  the  dawn  of  renaissance. 

It  is  a  pile  absolutely  out  of  the  common ;  in 
richness  and  elegance  far  above  the  Cathedrals  of 
Paris,  Tours,  and  Strasbourg.  It  blossoms  and 
flourishes  like  Dante's  luxuriant  tree  of  mystic 
flowers. 

106 


RHEIMS  197 

Its  style  is  entirely  lanceolate.  The  facade  is  like 
a  carved  reliquary,  mystic,  efflorescent,  worthy  to 
be  of  beaten  gold.  Now  you  could  not  imagine  a 
golden  Parthenon.  There  is  no  exaggeration,  as 
at  Milan.  It  is  the  fulfilment  and  the  flower  of  the 
Gothic. 

The  apse  is  admirable,  a  masterpiece  like  that 
.at  Cologne,  though  distinct  in  feeling.  How  different 
from  that  paltry  array  of  buttresses  at  Notre  Dame, 
which  remind  one  of  a  crab — a  reminiscence  of  Saint 
Sernin,  a  sample  of  south-Italian  ! 

There  are  evidently  different  periods  in  this 
Cathedral.  Viollet-le-Duc  says  that  in  the  fifteenth 
century  the  original  design  was  always  followed, 
but  that  after  that  century  the  work  was  shortened 
for  want  of  money.  And  it  is  manifest  from  the 
patches  of  masonry,  the  iron  clamps,  and  sundry 
restorations,  that  the  edifice  was  frail.  Gothic  is 
always  under  repair. 

I  saw  St  Remy,  the  main  part  of  which  is  only 
about  half  a  century  older  than  the  Cathedral.  The 
difference  is  enormous.  The  wide  nave  ends  in  a 
concave  choir.  There  is  breathing  -  space  ;  it  is 
strong,  serene,  and  fine,  in  the  antique  fashion. 

The  white  chalky  soil  of  Champagne  is  horrible. 
It  has  an  absolutely  prosaic  effect.  There  is  not  a 


198  JOURNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

refined  shape  or  colour  to  be  seen.  Art  will  never 
flourish  here :  witness  the  inflamed  eye,  the  cunning 
mouth,  the  jeering  voice,  the  big,  irregular,  vulgar 
nose  of  the  inhabitants. 

The  prevailing  characteristic  of  French  provincial 
life,  such  as  our  constitution  makes  it,  is  that  men 
have  no  occupation.  They  begin  with  a  keen 
scramble,  and  then  grow  torpid.  It  is  a  sort  of 
animal  hybernation. 

France  is,  and  will  continue  to  be,  a  democracy, 
impelled  by  men  who  write,  and  controlled  by 
officials.  The  influence  of  men  of  understanding 
is  transient,  and  only  skin-deep,  for  want  of  a  stable 
proprietary  class.  Rural  landowners  have  nothing 
to  do  but  to  look  after  their  own  possessions.  Some 
few  have  an  outlet  in  the  Society  of  St  Vincent 
de  Paul  ;  others  lend  books  through  the  village 
libraries,  and  visit  the  schools.  But  they  are  not 
men  of  action  ;  they  have  no  true  initiative.  They 
fade  out  of  sight,  grow  morose,  and  complain  that 
the  Government  suppresses  them ;  that  they  have 
nothing  in  which  they  can  take  a  part,  either 
individually  or  in  association.  They  cannot  start  a 
new  sect,  or  a  political  agitation.  The  sanction  of 
the  State  was  needed  before  the  Society  of  St 
Vincent  de  Paul  could  be  established,  and  it  is 


R  REIMS  199 

purely  charitable,  with  no  other  qualification  than 
that  of  being  a  Catholic  communicant. 

The  effect  of  provincial  life  is  to  attenuate  the 
individual,  to  exhaust  his  faculties  in  little  whims 
and  trifling  duties :  for  women,  cookery,  domestic 
arrangements,  the  kitchen-garden,  the  prevention  of 
waste,  the  tending  of  flowers,  the  making  of  artificial 
flowers,  crucifixes  and  boxes,  paying  calls,  and  gossip- 
ing like  a  revolving  wheel,  attending  church  and 
telling  their  beads  ;  for  men,  the  cafe",  the  club, 
the  dinner  of  many  courses.  The  main  point  is 
to  kill  time,  whether  your  calling  is  to  be  a  magistrate, 
to  play  cup  and  ball,  or  to  whip  a  trout-stream. 
It  is  vocation  enough  to  manage  your  property  and 
husband  your  estate ;  you  become  a  slave  to  your 
house  or  to  your  garden,  and  indulge  yourself  with 
a  game  of  dominoes  or  a  glass  of  beer  at  the  cafe". 

Religion  owes  much  of  its  power  in  the  country 
to  the  fact  of  its  being  an  occupation,  a  mechanical 
exercise  which  gets  through  a  certain  number  of 
hours ;  and  the  power  of  the  clergy  consists  in 
their  being  a  class  of  officials.  As  for  mysticism, 
it  is  for  a  small  number  of  sickly  or  select  souls, 
one  in  thirty  at  the  outside. 

The  state  of  France  is  like  a  state  of  siege ; 
every  moment  the  liberty  of  the  individual  is  being 
sacrificed  to  the  State. 


2OO  JOURNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

In  any  true  State,  everything  depends  on  the 
degree  and  kind  of  impression  which  the  aggregate 
of  individuals  receive  from  any  given  event.  An 
exacting  and  restrictive  government  becomes  neces- 
sary amongst  Frenchmen,  with  their  excitability, 
their  suspicious  restlessness,  their  great  foresight, 
their  rapidity  of  logical  reasoning.  Witness  the 
terror  produced  by  Socialism  in  185.1,  which  made 
them  throw  themselves  into  the  arms  of  a 
President. 

On  my  return  to  Paris,  I  discussed  all  this  with 
Hillebrand.1  I  maintained  that  the  originative  force 
of  the  Frenchman  is  not,  as  he  said,  vanity,  but  the 
necessity  for  excitement.  A  German  can  stand 
being  bored,  or  put  up  with  gloomy  impressions,  more 
easily  than  a  Frenchman. 

He  holds  that  France  is  superior  to  Germany  in  its 
aptitude  for  association.  She  has  an  instinct,  a  tact 
a  talent  for  conversation  and  society,  because  she  is 
impelled  to  talk,  is  naturally  polite,  has  the  desire  to 
shine,  the  gift  of  self-adornment,  an  aptitude  for  ex- 
pansion, a  readiness  in  passing  from  one  idea  to 
another,  and  from  one  subject  to  another.  More  than 
that,  she  has  public  spirit,  a  faculty  of  unanimous 

1  Karl  Hillebrand,  author  of  "  Frankreich  und  die  Franzosen.'7 


RHE1MS  201 

perception,  of  coalescence  and  combination  on  any 
particular  question,  and  of  immediate  action  upon  it. 
Thus,  there  was  a  clear  expression  of  this  public 
spirit  in  1788,  in  1829,  in  June  1848,  in  December 
1852.  Men  act  together,  when  their  ideas  are  few 
in  number,  simple,  clear,  and  contagious  ;  whilst  the 
individualist  German  marches  along  on  his  own 
account,  differing  from  all  who  surround  him,  and  it 
is  not  easy  to  rouse  him  into  action. 

France  has  more  traditions  and  codes  of  honour, 
politeness,  and  good  breeding ;  every  individual,  like 
the  aggregate,  sets  out  with  a  moral  judgment 
capable  of  being  applied  to  all  events  of  primary 
importance,  and  of  telling  him  clearly  what  he  ought 
to  do  and  believe  in  particular  cases.  It  is  the  same 
in  England,  thanks  to  the  antiquity  of  their  culture 
and  political  existence.  Germany,  on  the  other  hand, 
is  new,  unsettled,  irresolute. 


PART     III. 


THE   BELFRY  AT   DOUAI. 


DOUAI. 

ONCE  again  the  same  impression  of  peace  and 
comfort,  of  neatness  and  the  picturesque.  The  walls 
are  new  painted,  glazed,  or  whitened  every  year.  The 
buildings  and  gardens,  all  that  shows  from  without, 
are  like  smug  and  prudent  citizens  in  their  Sunday 
clothes. 

But  the  effect  of  the  place  on  the  eyes  is  very 
fine.  A  grand  moving  mass  of  murky  rain-clouds 
now  and  again  reveals  behind  its  gloomy  hues  a 
chink  of  delicious  blue  or  fleecy  white.  Against 
this  softened  background  you  have  the  slated  roofs, 
with  their  red  chimney-stacks,  the  long  white  walls 
of  glazed  bricks,  the  groups  of  luxuriant  poplars, 
the  thousand  trees  and  lawns  of  lovely  green,  the 
manifold  verdure  dishevelled  by  the  buffeting  mist- 
laden  winds.  And  set  within  the  cloudy  mass  is 
the  belfry  of  the  Palais  de  Justice,  its  turreted 
summit  whimsically  adorned  with  leaden  caps  and 
heraldic  animals. 

It  is  only  in  the  lands  of  mist,  where  the  dome 


2O6  JOURNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

of  the  sky  is  half  obliterated,  that  the  hues  of  nature 
have  their  full  effect.  The  red  and  green  were  an 
excellent  contrast  to  the  half-effaced  and  melting 
background. 

The  air  was  impregnated  as  it  were  with  im- 
perceptible vapour,  and  the  moist  warmth  did  not 
prevent  the  sky  from  being  bright  and  soft.  The 
broad  garments  of  the  poplars  hung  feebly  swaying 
in  the  thin  luminous  mist.  The  tender  well-nourished 
leaves  were  remarkably  rich  in  hue  and  delicate  in 
tissue.  In  the  park  yesterday  I  slept  a  balmy  sleep, 
wrapped  in  the  universal  warmth  and  vital  freshness 
of  Nature.  A  tall  pine,  like  those  I  have  seen  in 
Corsica,  mounted  upward  like  a  tower,  and  its  head 
swam  in  the  diaphanous  mist. 

The  houses  please  me  very  much.  The  roofs  are 
especially  striking,  being  very  lofty,  steep,  solid- 
looking,  with  small  red  tiles  that  seem  to  be  as 
thick  as  bricks,  and  form  a  strong  shell  to  carry 
the  snows  of  winter.  The  old  brick  chimneys  rise 
casually  from  the  roofs,  mostly  as  a  natural  pro- 
longation, well  set  on  their  bases,  and  not  stuck  on 
anyhow,  as  in  the  midland  towns  of  France.  The 
house  is  a  complete  body,  with  head  and  trunk. 
All  these  irregular  horned  heads  lie  in  a  broad 
fantastic  strip  across  the  cloudy  sky. 

I   have  an  eye   for  Flemish  types.     I   spent  half 


DOUAI  207 

an  hour  in  a  little  courtyard,  behind  the  college, 
studying  two  or  three  lofty  houses,  capped  with 
their  high  roofs  and  red  chimneys ;  two  or  three 
more  with  slated  roofs,  and  bricks  of  several  colours, 
or  shining  with  white  paint — deep  contrasted  colours, 
strong  and  bright,  set  off  by  the  intense  green  of 
the  occasional  poplars,  steeped  in  the  humid  atmo- 
sphere, and  girt  round  by  the  floating  mist — charming 
woolly  fleeces,  a  shifting  veil  of  fog,  banks  of  cloud 
and  tattered  bands  of  vapour,  which  rolls  by  or 
condenses  as  it  falls  amidst  the  slated  house-tops. 
There  are  scores  of  such  houses,  on  which  one 
looks  again  and  again,  as  though  they  were  living 
faces,  and  which  one  would  gladly  paint.  Nothing 
more  is  wanted  ;  they  would  make  an  ample  subject. 
Flemish  pictures  are  just  the  same  in  feeling — very 
soft  and  very  simple. 

All  over  the  place  you  see  the  servants  washing 
and  cleaning.  The  poorest  of  the  people  at  least 
once  a  year,  on  the  Fete  de  Gayant,  cleanse  their 
houses  thoroughly,  both  inside  and  out.  House- 
holders find  it  advisable  to  engage  the  painters  and 
white-washers  six  months  beforehand. 

Many  of  the  gardens  are  large  and  very  lovely, 
crowded  with  plants,  which  enliven  with  their  green 
the  red  and  the  deep  brown  of  the  nearest  houses 


208  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

the  strange  and  well-marked  shapes  of  the  roofs.  The 
silent,  all  but  spotless  streets  refresh  the  sight,  all 
streaked  with  red,  white,  and  brown,  as  evenly  as 
some  piece  of  coloured  cloth. 

Bickering,  backbiting,  petty  rivalries,  indiscretions, 
scandal,  and  spying — there  you  have  the  flies,  and 
wasps,  and  gadflies,  which  mar  this  scene  of  peace 
and  comfort. 

I  spent  a  day  at  Lille.  There  is  nothing  to  remark 
upon  except  the  museum.  It  is  a  Flemish  town, 
like  Douai,  but  with  less  of  repose,  and  less  pure 
in  style.  Round  about  it,  as  about  Douai,  there 
spreads  an  endless  plain,  a  great  flat  kitchen-garden, 
casually  dotted  with  trees,  yellow  with  bound  sheaves, 
chequered  with  fields  of  flowering  poppies  and 
coarse-leaved  beetroot,  and  low  or  pointed  roofs. 
There  are  myriads  of  fields,  richly  nurtured  by  the 
low  overhanging  sky,  with  its  lazy,  slumbering  clouds 
and  riddled  light,  which  oozes  through  the  fleecy 
mist.  White  flocks  of  down  dwindle  and  evaporate 
amongst  the  grey  and  black  clouds,  which  fall  now 
and  again  in  streams  or  sheets  of  rain.  The 
vapour  incessantly  rises  from  the  soil,  scatters, 
collects  into  a  mass,  until  it  falls  again  to  fertilise 
the  ever-teeming  earth.  The  blended  varying  hue, 
the  sun- pierced  fog,  the  air  thick  with  moist  and 


DOUAI  2O9 

melting  vapours,  lulled  and  rejoiced  my  eyes  \vith 
their  changing  and  softening  tints ;  and,  when  the 
mist  had  fallen  in  rain,  my  soul  was  refreshed  to 
see  the  dripping  poplars  shine  and  glisten  again 
in  the  drying  sun. 

When  I  returned  to  Douai  in  the  evening,  all  the 
townsfolk  were  out  in  the  square  in  their  Sunday 
best — neat  white  frocks  and  dainty  bonnets.  It  was 
impossible  to  move  about  with  freedom,  or  to  find 
a  chair ;  the  crowd  was  as  dense  as  at  the  Tuileries, 
or  in  the  Champs  Elysees,  for  to-day  there  was 
music  in  the  square.  To  put  on  your  best  dress 
and  listen  to  the  brass  band  is  the  poetry  of  this 
life  of  domesticity,  of  perpetual  cleanliness,  and 
sluggish  ease.  It  was  the  same  round  of  domestic 

duties  as  I  witnessed  in  the  house  of  M.  V ,  near 

Mons.  Twice  or  thrice  in  a  day  three  little  children 
were  undressed  and  dressed  again ;  there  was  a 
never-ending  succession  of  needlewomen  and  washer- 
women ;  nothing  but  wash-tubs  and  the  overhauling 
of  linen-chests.  The  husband's  domain  is  his  cellar, 
and  he  is  as  much  devoted  to  it  as  if  it  were  a 
library. 

A  blank  day,  except  for  a  pleasant  impression  of 
the  old  province  of  Le  Perche,  and  in  the  outskirts 

O 


2IO  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

of  Le  Mans.  The  country  is  nothing  but  hills — 
green  hills  with  little  streams  flowing  between  the 
alders,  all  pasture-land,  and  every  meadow  bordered 
by  lines  of  forest  trees — oaks  and  others.  The  oaks 
are  of  all  ages  and  of  every  shape,  spreading  and 
upright,  sometimes  broken  and  squat,  but  inex- 
pressibly verdant.  For  leagues  at  a  time  this  verdure 
never  ceases.  The  round  luxuriant  tree-tops  succeed 
each  other  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach ;  occasionally 
a  grove  of  pines  contributes  its  inexhaustible  fresh- 
ness. The  ancient  poetry  of  the  virgin  landscape 
is  not  yet  absolutely  extinct ;  man  has  not  yet 
utterly  consumed  the  primitive  forest.  He  has  saved 
the  fringe,  and  the  oaks  are  as  free  and  as  vital  as 
in  the  freshness  of  dawn. 


LA   FLECHE. 

IN  the  afternoon  I  was  on  board  a  steamboat  on 
the  Loir.  On  both  sides  of  us  all  was  green  and 
crowded  with  vegetation.  The  river  was  full  01 
aquatic  plants,  water-lilies,  bulrushes,  and  tufted 
reeds ;  and  the  reeds,  with  their  stiff  flat  leaves, 
were  crowded  together  on  the  banks  by  tens  of 
thousands,  bending  under  their  burden  of  red  seeds. 
To  right  and  left  nothing  but  meadows  of  thick 
grass,  hedges  of  oaks  and  poplars — a  great  flat  basin 
of  verdure.  The  green  river  advances  with  a  broad 
full  stream,  overflowing  in  little  marshes  or  long 
backwaters,  and  irrigating  the  fertile  soil.  A  grey 
sky,  heavy  with  falling  mist,  hangs  over  the  satur- 
ated land  ;  the  sifted  light  pours  down  upon  a 
distant  hedge  and  meadow-side,  and  a  warm  vapour 
floats  incessantly  between  earth  and  sky.  Some- 
times in  the  horizon,  between  the  still  green  summits 

of  the  poplars,  a  violet  patch  of  sky,  wellnigh  black, 

211 


212  JO  URNE  YS   THRO  UGH  FRANCE 

throws  out  with  greater  vividness  the  young  and 
freshly  illuminated  verdure.  Then  comes  the  shower. 
The  river  seems  to  boil  beneath  innumerable  big 
drops  of  rain.  The  emptied  cloud  sheers  off,  and 
wandering  white  mists  hang  around  the  trees  like 
a  torn  robe  of  muslin,  until  the  strong  sunlight 
awakens  a  glorious  life  in  the  grass,  and  the  under- 
growth sparkles  with  a  stream  of  white  pearls. 

A  couple  of  officers  with  whom  I  have  been  con- 
versing told  me  that  they  could  not  afford  to  cling  to 
their  profession  ;  it  cost  too  much  to  live.  There 
are  plenty  of  sergeant-majors  who  could  pass  their 
examinations  and  become  sub-lieutenants  ;  but  they 
say  to  the  Inspector-General  sometimes  : — 

"  I  might  have  worked  at  my  books  and  become 
an  officer.  But  I  should  have  had  to  wait  ten  years, 
and  my  family  is  poor,  and  could  not  support  me. 
I  preferred  to  read  the  books  in  my  leisure  moments, 
but  when  I  am  out  of  my  time  I  shall  go  into  a 
merchant's  office." 

The  board  of  lieutenants  and  sub-lieutenants  costs 
them  sixty  francs  a  month,  with  at  least  five  or  six 
francs  for  wine  and  extras.  Those  who  have  no 
assistance  from  their  families  sometimes  go  without 
light  and  fire  in  their  quarters,  and  walk  about  the 
gloomy  streets,  or  yawn  in  the  cafes,  and  look 


LA   FLECHE  21$ 

enviously  at  the    names   of    more   fortunate    people 
in  the  directory. 

The  most  lucky  are  the  steady-going  country  folk, 
who  re-enlist,  and  at  forty-two,  after  serving  three 
terms,  with  a  pension  and  a  bonus,  go  back  to  their 
homes,  buy  a  bit  of  land,  and  marry. 


FROM  RENNES  TO  REDON. 

THIS  is  a  charming  country.  The  Vilaine  meanders 
through  it,  and  there  are  little  green  hills  alternating 
with  green  hollows,  with  a  delightful  absence  of 
regularity,  which  is  full  of  caprice  and  imagination. 
The  cool  running  water  has  strange  dark  tints,  and 
a  sort  of  intermitting  turbulence.  The  meadows, 
constantly  freshened  by  mists  and  rain,  are  framed 
with  hedges  of  oak.  Rain,  or  the  weeping  of  the 
mist,  forever  descends  upon  the  green  oak  summits. 
Verdure  succeeds  to  verdure,  and  in  their  uniformity 
of  fresh  life,  half-smiling  and  half-sad,  there  is  a 
pleasing  casualness,  a  quaint  diversity  of  outline, 
caused  by  the  uneven  soil  and  the  patterns  of  the 
fields.  These  remnants  of  the  primitive  forest  give 
one  glimpses  every  now  and  then  of  the  ancient 
region  of  the  Mabinogion,  and  of  the  Breton  poems. 
The  still  and  limpid  waters,  in  their  cups  of  green 
grass,  and  under  the  shade  of  innumerable  oaks,  must 
have  wakened  strange  visions  in  unsophisticated 
minds,  like  that  of  Merlin  and  Vivien.  Who  can 

214 


FROM  RENNES   TO  REDON  21$ 

understand  all  that  a  spring  has  to  say  to  a  poet 
in  the  forest  wilds  ? 

Near  Redan  the  lande  begins.  The  granite  bell- 
tower,  flanked  with  smaller  turrets,  stands  out  grey 
and  gloomy,  pointing  upwards  to  the  pale  misty  sky, 
laden  with  heavy  clouds,  which  drag  themselves  over 
the  tree-tops.  Then  the  trees  disappear,  or  are  but 
few  and  stunted,  a  scattered  handful  of  pines,  dwarfed 
and  dwindling  oaks  and  undergrowth.  Next,  for 
hours  at  a  time,  the  lande,  covered  with  heath  and 
furze.  The  prickly  litter  of  the  furze  collects  in 
ugly  heaps;  the  heath  spreads  far  and  wide  its 
rough  carpet  of  violet  and  red.  There  is  no  soil ; 
every  here  and  there  the  dry  rock  comes  to  the 
surface,  surging  up  and  down  as  far  as  the  eye  can 
reach,  with  no  life-sustaining  layer  of  mould  to  cover 
it.  Desolate  and  deserted  hollows  and  heights  follow 
each  other  in  succession,  under  a  gloomy  veil  of 
melting  fog.  When  there  is  water  it  is  impure ;  the 
unbroken  rock  beneath  prevents  it  from  escaping ; 
and  it  spreads  itself  in  stagnant  marshes,  in  little 
threads  of  green  across  the  yellow  unwholesome 
vegetation,  which  clings  to  the  rock  like  a  sickly 
skin,  in  lumpy  quagmires,  alternately  overflowing 
and  dry. 

A  few  lines  of  wretched  trees  follow  the  course  of 
this  useless  oozing  water.  Now  and  then  a  melan- 


2l6  JOURNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

choly  range  of  hills  is  dotted  with  moss-grown, 
weather-beaten  rocks.  A  whispering  grove  of  firs 
looks  bare,  with  its  lanky  stems  and  shadeless  tree- 
tops.  It  is  like  the  north  of  Scotland  without 
mountains.  A  few  wild  cattle,  as  in  Scotland,  dot 
with  white  and  red  the  monotonous  gloom  of  the 
furze ;  a  woman  is  running  along  with  bare  feet ;  and 
through  a  patch  of  buckwheat,  where  the  land  is 
capable  of  tillage,  a  labourer  in  wooden  shoes  and 
an  enormous  hat,  both  discoloured  by  constant  rain, 
creeps  along  like  a  phantom  in  the  mud.  But,  as  in 
Scotland,  here  also,  delightful  clumps  of  rich  violet 
heather  smile  amidst  the  dry  bones  of  the  obtrusive 
rock. 


VANNES. 

YESTERDAY  I  was  at  Carnac.     But  before  I  speak 
of  it  I  will  set  down  my  impressions  of  Vannes. 

The  most  striking  female  type  is  that  of  the 
religious  sisters.  They  are  pale  of  complexion, 
sometimes  rather  sallow  and  sickly,  often  extremely 
delicate.  Some  'of  the  younger  ones  give  one  the 
idea  of  an  ascetic  Madonna,  with  a  slender  neck 
like  that  of  Joan  of  Naples,  long,  thin,  and  altogether 
charming,  with  a  remarkably  sweet  voice,  modest 
downcast  eyes,  a  quivering  sensibility,  amounting  at 
times  to  painful  shyness.  The  effect  is  delightful, 
and  one  feels  that  these  are  sensitive  souls. 

At  Carnac,  for  instance,  there  was  a  girl  with  an 
ague,  sitting  silent  and  motionless  at  the  kitchen 
window  of  the  inn,  with  her  head  resting  on  her  thin 
hand,  dark  circles  round  her  eyes,  yellow  as  new  wax, 
like  the  nuns  of  Delaroche  in  his  Cenci  pictures.  Her 
cousin,  who  waited  on  us  at  table,  had  a  dainty 
chin,  the  most  delicate  lines,  an  exceedingly  modest 

217 


2l8  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

manner,  and  a  voice  of  excellent  pitch.  Everything 
she  said  or  did  was  calm  and  precise,  and  it  was  the 
same  with  the  landlady.  French  is  learnt  in  the 
schools  as  befits  a  literary  tongue;  the  women  speak 
it  with  delightful  purity,  with  no  provincial  accent. 

Physical  placidity  and  the  refinement  of  a  mystic 
— these  are  the  striking  and  by  no  means  uncommon 
features. 

In  the  young  girls,  and  especially  amongst  the 
peasantry,  the  face  is  without  a  wrinkle,  as  pure  as 
those  of  the  mediaeval  Madonnas.  They  have  the 
pale  transparent  complexion  of  a  forest  flower, 
sheltered  and  unceasingly  lulled  by  shade.  Most 
faces  here  are  irregular,  with  large  nose  and  small 
mouth ;  they  are  odd,  and  even  ugly ;  but,  when 
they  smile,  they  light  up  as  pleasantly  as  a  cloudy 
sky  penetrated  by  the  sun.  When  humour,  or  even 
sometimes  when  malice  passes  over  them,  the  fine 
effect  is  indescribable. 

I  saw  a  few  handsome,  strong,  thorough  types, 
with  well-shaped  heads,  but  these  always  showed 
the  immobility  of  the  primitive  race.  They  look 
you  full  in  the  face,  or  else  the  fierce  eyes  are 
lowered  ;  there  are  no  sidelong,  sheepish  looks. 

The  dress  of  a  sister  is  generally  black,  with  long 
straight  folds ;  they  wear  an  apron  reaching  upwards 
to  the  throat,  and  fastened  by  pins  at  the  shoulders  ; 


VANNES  219 

a  reddish  or  brown  shawl,  with  the  corners  gathered 
into  the  bodice;  a  hood  of  white  linen  on  the  head, 
with  flaps  which  cover  the  cheeks.  At  Vannes,  it 
ends  in  long  streamers,  which  float  behind  them.  It 
is  all  very  simple  and  tasteful — just  cloth  wound 
round  the  body  and  linen  to  cover  the  hair. 

I  attended  mass  at  Vannes.  The  church  was 
crowded.  Near  the  entrance  the  men  knelt  on  both 
knees,  telling  their  beads  and  muttering  their  prayers, 
with  sober  look,  quiet  as  the  rigid  body  of  a  man  in 
a  trance.  In  the  porch  a  poor,  gouty,  bent  old  man, 
in  a  sort  of  chair,  with  his  long  grey  hair  falling  on 
his  neck,  mutters  gravely  with  closed  eyes,  immersed 
in  thought  and  counting  his  beads,  whilst  the  other 
hand  clasps  his  brazen  crucifix. 

An  old  woman,  partly  crippled,  crouches  against  the 
stone  wall,  counts  her  beads,  and  mumbles  a  piece  of 
bread.  She  looks  like  a  witch. 

A  blind  man  had  found  his  way  to  the  front,  and 
there,  as  close  as  he  could  come  to  the  high  altar, 
kneeling  with  straight  back,  mutters  as  he  drinks  in  the 
holy  atmosphere  of  the  place. 

Women,  girls,  and  men  file  past  the  font,  crossing 
themselves  with  the  utmost  reverence.  Never  a  face 
is  raised,  except  by  the  grand  ladies  of  the  town  ;  not 
a  look  is  allowed  to  wander ;  they  walk  past,  cross 
themselves,  and  fall  upon  their  knees  with  devout 


22O  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

gravity  and  simplicity.  Two  or  three  pretty  young 
girls,  with  their  camellia  tints  blanched  by  the  staring 
white  of  their  hoods,  with  their  fixed  impassioned  eyes, 
with  their  innermost  soul  breathing  through  its  frail 
envelope,  fill  you  with  stupefaction  and  concern.  The 
primitive  virgin  and  the  modern  woman,  the  extremes 
of  innocence  and  sensibility — what  an  appeal,  and 
what  a  contrast !  Side  by  side,  the  face,  the  attractions 
of  a  duchess  in  her  boudoir,  and  the  eyes  of  a  child, 
or  of  a  lamb. 

The  men  wear  black  jackets  and  trousers,  and  an 
enormous  black  hat.  The  effect  is  funereal.  Some- 
times you  see  red  lapels  to  the  waistcoat,  and  the 
striped  blue  and  brown  breeches  of  the  ancient 
Gaul.  No  necktie  is  worn  ;  the  big  white  neckband 
touches  the  hair  and  the  ears.  The  hair  often  reaches 
the  neck  and  shoulders  in  long  locks,  or  in  a  single 
mop. 

How  the  difference  is  impressed  upon  us !  We 
went  into  a  draper's  shop.  The  girl  who  waited  upon 
us  is  a  native  of  Normandy,  matter-of-fact  and 
cheerful,  but  decidedly  vulgar. 

"There  is  no  dancing  here,"  she  says;  "the  girls 
and  women  would  think  themselves  lost  if  they  were 
to  dance.  Not  one  of  them  would  stay  away  from 
mass  on  Sunday ;  but  they  are  light-fingered  folk. 


VANNES  221 

We  have  to  keep  our  eyes  'open.     They  would  not 
steal  money,  but  anything  in  a  shop  is  fair  game." 

According  to  an  official  whom  I  saw  at  Rennes, 
Brittany  furnishes  more  recruits  for  the  vice  of  the 
capital  than  any  other  part  of  France.  In  the 
country  places  brothers  and  sisters  sleep  in  the  same 
rooms,  and  the  results  may  be  imagined.  At  festivals, 
at  the  Pardons,1  drunkenness  is  very  common,  and 
that  leads  to  what  is  worse. 

After  further  observation  I  should  say  that  the  typical 
distinction  is  due  to  the  white  complexion  and  trans- 
parency of  the  skin,  to  the  delicacy  of  the  chin,  which 
ends  in  a  point,  and  to  the  smallness  of  all  the  organs 
concerned  in  eating  and  drinking.  The  long  and 
mobile  mouth  is  very  expressive,  owing  to  the 
thinness  of  the  lips  ;  the  eyes  are  of  a  dull  or  quiet 
blue. 

At  Vannes  there  are  some  traces  of  the  ancient 
Breton  town  ;  it  was  mentioned  to  me  as  typical. 

In  the  first  place  there  are  the  old  streets  around 
the  Church  of  Saint-Pierre.  As  at  Auray,  the  houses 
have  three  or  four  low  storeys.  The  upper  ones  over- 


1  There  were  40,000  pilgrims  at  Notre-Dame  d'Auray  on  July 
28,  who  bivouacked  in  the  open  air. 


222  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

hang  the  lower,  so  that  there  is  not  more  than  five 
feet  between  the  gutters  of  the  two  roofs.  There  is 
not  much  light,  and  too  little  air. 

These  houses  are  of  wood  and  clay,  anything  but 
substantial ;  there  is  often  a  storey  which  bends  in 
and  totters,  or  falls  outward.  Two  houses  separ- 
ated by  a  narrow  alley  have  sunk  against  each  other, 
so  that  they  have  had  to  be  stayed  with  beams.  One 
comes  upon  narrow  bulging  steps,  indescribable 
recesses  and  lairs,  back-courts  and  lanes,  the  oddest 
jumble  imaginable.  These  are  relics  of  mediaevalism, 
caprice,  and  contempt  for  health. 

Against  constant  wind  and  rain,  many  houses  are 
caparisoned  with  slates,  wings,  and  extra  roofs ;  the 
cracked  and  moss-grown  slates  rattle  up  and  down, 
and  the  house  looks  like  a  half-scaled  lizard.  The 
oldest  of  those  in  the  market-place  have  gabled 
fronts,  so  that  one  can  appreciate  their  original 
elegance.  The  scaly  head  of  these  houses  stands  out 
stiff  with  its  blue  slates,  above  the  yellow  plaster  and 
small-paned  windows.  You  will  see  a  statue  of  a 
saint  surmounting  a  gable;  a  carved  flower  is  con- 
spicuous like  a  standard,  or  the  projecting  deity  of 
the  house.  Such  a  building  may  be  a  strange  and 
sickly  being,  and  possibly  spurious,  but  still  it  is 
alive. 

Indeed,  the  Middle  Age  was  an  attic  of  the  Muses. 


VANNES  223 

Close  to  Saint-Pierre  you  turn  aside  from  the  street, 
and  find  the  roof-gutters  of  the  opposite  houses  touch- 
ing each  other. 

There  are  other  signs  which  show  analogous  feel- 
ing, though  they  are  more  recent  in  date.  There 
is  a  Renaissance  window  springing  from  the  roof  of 
one  house,  which  is  rich  in  design,  and,  with  its  bars 
of  sculptured  stone,  is  no  mere  hole  for  the  admis- 
sion of  light  and  air,  but  an  existence,  complete  and 
interesting,  on  its  own  account.  The  flight  of  steps 
at  the  Town-hall  has  a  double  baluster,  sinuous  like 
that  at  Fontainebleau,  and  is  furnished  with  finely- 
twisted,  wrought-iron  bars.  A  grand  flight  in  the 
market-square,  which  once  distinguished  the  front  of 
a  citizen's  mansion,  stands  out  across  the  pavement, 
which  it  usurps  with  its  moss-grown  flags,  carrying 
tufts  of  grass  in  all  the  crevices. 

We  went  down  to  the  harbour,  a  long  creek  of 
the  sea  with  a  river  flowing  into  it,  and  bordered  by 
an  avenue  of  elms  extending  over  three-quarters  of 
a  mile.  They  are  old,  straight-grown,  respectable 
elms,  with  as  little  character  as  the  old  town-houses 
running  beside  them.  When  the  avenue  ends  the 
canal  grows  wider ;  there  are  two  or  three  ships 
building  close  to  the  bank ;  the  pale  still  water 
stretches  out  to  the  horizon  between  the  two  flat 
coasts.  A  ship  has  been  left  by  the  tide,  resting 


224  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

against  the  muddy  dock-side.  Its  black  rigging  is 
the  only  object  which  stands  out  clearly  against  the 
dying  vapours  of  the  murky  sky,  or  against  the 
broken  background  in  which  the  dull  greens  of 
gorse,  heather,  and  broom,  with  a  few  tree-tops  here 
and  there,  lose  themselves  behind  a  shifting  fog,  now 
shrivelling  as  it  yields  its  moisture  to  the  clouds, 
now  flickering  like  a  phantom  fire,  lit  by  a  fleeting 
sunbeam.  There  is  a  reek  from  the  broad  margin 
of  silt,  left  bare  by  the  ebbing  tide,  and  the  slimy 
bottom  shines  with  inky  lights.  The  dark  standing 
water  in  the  middle  of  the  winding  track  slumbers 
with  infected  breath  in  the  silent  and  deserted  port. 


FROM    AURAY    TO    CARNAC. 

AURAY  is  a  pretty  little  town,  built  on  two  hill- 
sides ;  between  them  flows  a  river,  crossed  by  an 
old  bridge.  When  the  tide  flows  out  the  boats 
are  left  high  and  dry  on  the  beach.  There  were 
constant  showers ;  the  old  granite  houses  over- 
hanging their  foundations,  the  tumble-down  cottages 
in  the  steep  and  winding  lanes,  the  fresh  green  vege- 
tation on  the  river  banks,  all  bear  witness  to  the 
never-ending  wet. 

We  set  out  at  nine  in  the  morning,  as  the  sun- 
light began  to  sift  through  the  fog.  The  country 
greeted  us  like  a  poor  but  pretty  girl,  smiling  through 
her  tears,  though  we  knew  that  the  tears  would 
break  out  afresh.  A  pleasant  glow  settles  on  the 
moist  plain,  and  the  purple  heather,  the  yellow  gorse 
and  dandelions,  the  flowering  broom,  vary  the  old 
primitive  green  with  mingled  hues,  deep  and  silky 
as  those  of  a  rich  carpet.  This  rich  vegetation,  with 
its  jumble  of  coloured  designs  on  a  dull  background, 
is  strangely  pleasing  to  the  sight ;  and  it  breathes 


226  JOURNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

out  a  vague  odour  almost  imperceptibly  sweet.  The 
heavy  crops  of  food-plants  look  coarse  beside  these 
delicate  touches  of  wild  nature. 

There  are  scattered  firs  on  the  lande  exposed  to 
the  sun ;  sleepy  marshes  dotted  with  green  and 
white  by  the  myriad  shoots  and  snow-capped  bushes. 
Fields  of  stubble,  bare  of  all  but  a  few  blackening 
yellow  stalks,  alternate  with  patches  enclosed  by 
loose  stone  walls,  or,  still  more  frequently,  by  banks 
on  which  venerable  bushes  of  furze  grow  close  and 
thick,  sometimes  as  high  as  a  man,  gnarled  and 
bristling,  crowding  one  upon  another,  covering  up 
their  old  withered  growth  by  many  a  new  off- 
shoot, and  trenching  on  the  pasture -land  by 
that  incessant  fleecing  of  their  shaggy  surface.  I 
am  never  tired  of  looking  at  the  rough  massing 
of  these  hardy  denizens  of  the  soil,  obstinate  as 
the  Breton  granite,  which  stand  guard  over  the 
property  of  man,  themselves  the  imperishable  children 
of  the  lande.  Sometimes  amidst  their  bristling  ranks 
the  summit  of  an  oak  rears  itself  on  high,  or  a  little 
pine,  or  a  slender  clump  of  shrubs.  It  is  life,  but 
poor  and  struggling  life,  covered  with  a  monotonous 
grey  tint.  Only  now  and  again,  a  young  pine  of 
softest  green  smiles  at  you  from  the  gloomy  border. 

As  we  approach  Carnac,  every  field    bristles  with 


. 

FROM  AURAY  TO   CARNAC  22/ 

its  stony  barriers.  The  Celtic  remains  have  been 
plundered  to  build  these  walls.  It  is  calculated 
that  two  thousand  menhirs  have  been  destroyed, 
whilst  eleven  or  twelve  hundred  remain.  We  exam- 
ined the  two  longest  rows.  The  longest  of  all 
stretches  within  sight  of  the  sea.  There  are  five 
rows  of  stones  running  east  and  west,  set  upright, 
with  a  good  distance  between  them.  Some  have 
been  overthrown.  The  largest  are  ten  feet  high, 
and  all  are  rude,  uncut  stones,  set  in  the  soil  on 
one  end.  The  sight  is  not  interesting  on  its  ^own 
account ;  the  blocks  at  Fontainebleau  are  vaster,  and 
have  a  far  grander  effect.  But,  historically,  these 
stones  are  very  striking.  It  must  have  been  a 
barbaric  age  that  could  be  satisfied  with  such  a 
temple.  Is  it  the  product  of  the  age  of  stone,  before 
men  had  discovered  the  metals  ?  Or  is  it  the  work 
of  Druids,  who,  accustomed  to  live  in  the  woods 
without  any  covered  temple,  desired  on  this  treeless 
plain  to  imitate  the  forest  cloisters,  and  put  on 
record  their  crude  geometrical  notions?  In  any 
case,  these  blocks  were  moved  from  place  to  place 
by  the  bare  arms  of  savages,  with  the  sole  assistance 
of  rollers.  Here  their  fighting  men  were  gathered 
together ;  here  they  had  their  human  sacrifices ;  and 
the  mist,  the  furze,  the  blue  bay  on  the  horizon,  are 
the  same  for  us  as  they  were  for  them. 


228  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

At  the  top  of  the  hill  a  few  houses  are  perched 
amongst  the  largest  blocks,  and  these  straight  lines 
mark  the  boundaries  of  the  gardens.  One  house 
has  enclosed  its  acre  within  four  of  these  gigantic 
stones  ;  vegetables  grow  there,  and  fields  of  millet 
surround  them,  with  their  pale -hanging  tufts,  and 
fowls  are  roosting  on  them.  It  is  a  striking  effect ; 
this  bit  of  ordinary  culture  and  civilisation  makes 
one  realise  how  far  we  are  removed  from  that  bar- 
baric age.  It  would  be  impossible  to  picture  a 
monument  more  closely  akin  to  Nature ;  if  it  were 
not  for  the  regularity  and  the  orientation  of  these 
lines,  the  temple  might  be  a  moraine.  And  was  a 
Greek  temenos,  a  primitive  templum  of  the  Etruscan 
or  Roman,  very  different  in  character  ? 

On  the  hillside,  a  little  further  inland,  are  a  few 
great  dolmens — circles  of  rude  stones  set  up  on  end, 
with  an  enormous  flat  stone,  equally  rude,  resting  upon 
them  like  a  sort  of  lid,  but  touching  them  only  at 
three  or  four  points.  Anything  more  primitive  could 
scarcely  be  imagined  ;  there  are  similar  arrangements 
produced  by  Nature,  where  she  has  piled  her  rocks 
at  hazard. 

There  is  an  entrance  into  a  lower  cavity,  here  and 
there  not  unlike  a  drain.  Papuans  or  Fijians  might 
select  such  a  spot  for  their  sacrifices.  Were  these 
places  tombs?  In  a  neighbouring  house  we  were 


FROM  AURAY  TO   CARNAC  229 

shown  a  gold  necklace,  a  Gallic  "torques,"  which 
had  been  found  here.  Perchance  in  these  depths 
they  slaughtered  prisoners  and  slaves  over  the  body 
of  their  master ! 

The  arms  which  moved  these  masses  of  stone  must 
have  been  brawny  and  vigorous.  Some  of  these 
dolmens  are  on  the  summit  of  the  hill,  within  sight 
of  the  sea.  Was  there  some  pious  hope  of  resur- 
rection expressed  in  this  approximation  to  the  setting 
sun  and  the  infinite  ocean?  The  Druids  believed 
in  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  and  its  re-incarnation. 
The  question  whether  these  monuments  are  really 
Gallic  is  worthy  of  study.  They  may  even  date 
from  the  Jade  Period,  the  first  appearance  of  the 
Gauls  in  the  west.  We  are  tempted  to  abolish  the 
intervening  culture  by  a  stroke  of  the  pen,  and  to 
fix  our  thoughts  on  the  time  when  the  human  species 
wandered  in  the  woods,  not  far  removed  from  the 
vanished  aurochs  and  moose-deer. 

We  went  down  into  the  Quiberon  peninsula,  and 
spent  the  afternoon  on  the  beach.  For  a  league 
and  a  half  our  carriage  jolted  over  the  lumpy  plain, 
rough  with  grass  and  bushes,  and  out  of  sight  of  the 
sea.  There  was  not  a  tree  to  be  seen ;  the  broom 
and  furze  are  barely  a  foot  above  the  ground. 
Trenches  have  been  made  to  induce  the  growth 


230  JOURNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

of  small  trees  in  the  hollows,  but  nothing  came 
of  it. 

At  rare  intervals,  in  some  sheltered  spot,  we  caught 
sight  of  a  diminutive  fir,  which  had  attained  a  height 
of  eighteen  inches.  The  everlasting  winds  destroy 
or  stunt  every  scrap  of  vegetation.  It  is  all  as 
desolate  as  a  steppe. 

Presently  we  reach  an  isthmus,  with  the  sea  on 
either  side  of  us.  The  eastern  sea  is  without  a  ripple, 
intensely  blue,  the  richest  and  deepest  blue  imagin- 
able. The  western  sea  foams  and  dashes  incessantly 
against  the  shore,  and  the  Bretons  call  it  the  Mer 
Sauvage.  It  is  one  bright  and  flashing  green,  as 
far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  and  is  broken  by  dark  rugged 
islands.  As  it  nears  the  coast  it  rises  above  the  sea- 
weeds in  violet  waves  of  splendidly  varying  tints, 
fringed  with  silver  above,  and  breaking  in  a  shower 
of  sunlight.  The  whole  coast  is  wreathed  in  a  coronal 
of  lurid  violet  and  silvery  bronze.  A  million  grains 
of  salt  sparkle  in  the  white  sand  of  the  sea-shore. 
White-footed  women  are  gathering  the  dry  seaweed 
with  their  rakes ;  the  briny  wind  sweeps  in  their 
faces,  with  a  mist  of  foam  and  a  resonant  harmonious 
murmur. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  isthmus  the  sea  is  as  level 
in  parts  as  a  mirror  of  sapphire,  whilst  in  other  parts 
it  is  streaked  with  almost  imperceptible  quiverings, 


FROM  AURAY  70   CARNAC 

which  cross  each  other.  A  tiny  wave  flows  over  the 
polished  sand,  then  retreats  with  a  gentle  whisper. 
The  water  is  so  transparent  that  one  can  see  the 
shells  beneath  it,  the  burrowing  crabs,  and  the  little 
points  of  granite  which  break  the  surface.  The 
flowering  grass  tufts  the  crevices  of  rock,  and  over- 
hang the  azure  sea.  A  boat  sways  upon  the  water ; 
a  few  smacks  hover  on  the  horizon.  But  the  finest 
detail  of  the  picture  is  the  deep  strong  blue  which 
cuts  so  clean,  and  with  so  bold  a  contrast,  into  the 
dull  green  of  the  lande,  and  the  pale  greys  of  the 
coast-line.  It  is  the  only  surface  that  reflects  the 
light ;  everything  else  extinguishes  it.  The  coast, 
with  its  rays  of  white  walls,  and  seamed  with  rocks, 
is  like  some  rough  basin  or  chalky  hollow  which, 
by  queer  mischance,  contains  a  precious  liquor. 

A  strange  contrast  is  afforded  when  we  leave 
Britanny  and  approach  Savenay,  across  the  flat  and 
fertile  plain  of  the  Loire.  It  is  moist  and  verdant 
meadow-land,  dotted  with  flocks,  and  watered  by  the 
broad  and  peaceful  stream.  Near  Nantes  the  houses 
have  an  air  of  wealth  and  comfort ;  lines  of  ships 
are  at  anchor  in  the  Loire,  and  we  are  soon  amongst 
the  quays,  the  shops,  the  stacks  of  coal,  the  crowded 
and  promiscuous  trade.  Then  our  train  runs  slowly 
through  the  middle  of  the  town,  separated  from  the 


232  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

quayside  and  the  people  by  a  low  barrier.  After 
that,  the  Sunday  crowd,  the  close-built,  six-storeyed 
houses  with  scores  of  windows,  the  smoky  chimneys, 
the  toil  and  contrivances  of  a  population  of  a  hundred 
thousand. 


THE  CATHEDRAL  OF  NANTES. 

THERE  is  a  tomb  of  Francis  the  Second  (died  in  1488), 
Duke  of  Britanny,  and  of  his  wife,  by  Michel  Colomb. 
The  duke  and  duchess,  in  their  ducal  robes  and 
coronets,  lie  peacefully  sleeping,  with  their  hands 
clasped. 

It  is  a  commonplace  carving,  but  full  of  life  and 
sincerity,  with  a  smack  of  Italy  in  the  general  idea, 
and  in  the  fine  simplicity  of  detail.  The  figures  are 
evidently  portraits ;  the  calm  of  eternal  sleep  is  fully 
realised.  Throughout  the  fifteenth  century  there  was 
a  most  vivid  sentiment  of  moral  realism.  But  the 
pointed  nose,  the  sharply  peaked  chin,  the  too 
prominent  eyes,  the  lack  of  amplitude  and  resolution 
in  the  features — all  this  is  what  we  have  been  taught 
to  expect  in  the  mediaeval  burgess.  The  four  female 
forms  at  the  corners  are  life  size,  and  have  heads  of 


FROM  AURA Y  TO   CARNAC  233 

the  same  pattern :  the  antique  type  was  not  known 
to  these  sculptors.  They  just  copied  the  forms  that 
pleased  them  amongst  their  neighbours,  and  so 
attained  to  a  thing  sufficiently  admirable  in  itself, 
which  had  both  originality  and  individuality.  It  is 
easy  to  believe  in  the  existence  of  these  people,  and 
in  their  souls.  Almost  all  the  female  figures  have 
just  the  measure  of  limited  feminine  intellect  which 
is  usual  in  France,  with  the  familiar  little  cushion 
of  flesh  beneath  the  chin,  the  pointed  nose,  the  supple 
hands,  with  too  much  of  bone  and  sinew.  It  is  the 
modern  type,  and  perhaps  the  true  art  of  sculpture 
was  to  work  upon  it.  Excellent,  too,  in  all  this  art 
is  the  profound  study  of  draperies,  the  rich  original 
conception  and  thoughtful  arrangement  of  every 
kind  of  costume,  antique  or  feudal  or  provincial.  It 
is  the  same  in  Italy  and  Germany,  in  the  etchings 
of  Pollajuolo,  Mantegna,  and  Albert  Diirer.  There 
is  broad  and  deep  feeling  in  the  sixteen  dark  figures 
of  crouching  monks,  repellent,  with  an  expression 
full  of  suffering,  weighed  down  by  their  robes,  crushed 
by  many  prayers  and  the  terrors  of  religion — wrecks 
of  humanity  smothered  by  the  frock,  and  shrivelled 
by  dread  of  the  divine  vengeance  ! 


FROM    NANTES    TO    ANGERS. 

I  HAD  the  carnage  all  to  myself,  and  enjoyed  three 
hours  of  greater  pleasure  than  I  have  known  for  a 
long  time. 

Emerging  from  Britanny,  with  the  memory  full  of 
those  over-saturated  landscapes,  lean  lands  flooded 
with  stagnant  water,  a  thin  soil  on  a  bed  of  old  rock, 
a  drowned  verdure  dotted  with  poor  crops  of  wheat, 
mud  hovels,  wretched  cabins,  pale  and  sickly  forms 
of  fanatics  or  idiots,  drunken  bodies  and  inflated 
heads,  rude  survivals  from  the  sixteenth  century,  we 
enter  a  land  of  abundance  and  settled  joy. 

Lazy  Loire  keeps  us  company  on  the  right,  a  broad 
blue  river,  as  level  as  a  sheet  of  glass,  covered  with 
large  square-sailed  boats,  sailing  slowly  against  the 
stream.  There  are  round  green  masses  on  every 
hand,  osier-beds,  birch-trees,  little  groves,  with  white 
castles  on  the  hills,  rose-trees  and  clumps  of  orna- 
mental trees  on  the  slopes,  verdant  isles  and  banks 
of  sand,  wayward  water  quivering  in  the  light,  which 
throws  its  blue  arms  about  the  green.  The  river 

234 


I 

FROM  NANTES   TO  ANGERS  235 

goes  softly,  in  almost  motionless  broad  reaches,  and 
the  spirit  glides  along  in  harmony  with  it.  The  air 
is  warm :  vaguely  we  remember  our  gondola  in 
Venice,  with  the  music,  and  the  ladies  in  brocaded 
silk,  and  the  pearls  that  almost  hid  their  arms.  Thus 
floated  the  Valois  between  castle  and  castle,  in  their 
gorgeous  barges. 

As  the  shadows  lengthen,  earth  and  sky  put  on 
deeper  tints  of  brown  and  purple.  The  darkened 
trees  cast  their  gloomy  image  on  the  unruffled  stream. 
An  imperceptible  mist  breathes  over  the  dull  gold 
and  suffused  pink  above  the  vanished  sun.  The 
moon  unveils  herself  in  a  white  fleece  of  clouds,  and 
scatters  the  first  drops  of  a  shower  of  light.  All 
around  us  the  willows  hang  their  veil  of  dark  velvet. 
There  is  no  colour  left  beyond  the  dim  reds  and 
russets,  sinking  into  the  pale  blue  tint  that  lies  cold 
and  calm  on  the  horizon. 


THE  PICTURE-GALLERY  AT  ANGERS. 

HERE  I  admired  most  of  all  the  minor  French  artists 
of  the  eighteenth  century  : — Lancret,  Chardin,  Greuze, 
and  Watteau.  They  are  all  charming,  distinguished, 


236  JOURNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

refined,  with  a  light,  deft  touch,  somewhat  dim  in 
colour,  yet  harmonious.  It  is  the  efflorescence  of  the 
age  of  gallantry. 

In  Lancret,  note  especially  the  ease  and  grace  with 
which,  amidst  the  general  dulness  of  his  colouring,  the 
tones  vary  incessantly  and  imperceptibly,  like  a  sun- 
touched  mist  slowly  evaporating.  There  is  no  striving 
for  effect,  but  only  an  unlimited  caprice.  A  little 
patch  of  red,  and  two  black  points,  create  a  face.  The 
sketch  tells  everything  and  tells  it  so  quickly !  The 
foliage  is  but  a  pale  green  or  yellow-green  detail,  a 
vague  subordinated  shape.  One  feels  that  the  painter 
has  no  plan,  merely  advancing  by  little  touches  to 
produce  a  general  effect,  a  harmony  of  twinkling 
drapery,  the  spirit  and  grace  of  the  central  figures. 

Watteau,  is  a  better  colourist  by  far,  or  at  any  rate 
he  has  reached  a  greater  height.  His  hues  are  more 
intense.  Like  the  others,  only  more  distinctly,  he  is 
a  Fleming. 

There  are  some  casts  of  the  works  of  David  of 
Angers. 

They  bore  me.  You  have  here  the  historic  or 
emphatic  school  which  preceded  1848,  which  was 
false,  or  at  least  inadequate. 

Yet  a  day  might  be  spent  in  studying  his  bronze 
medallions ;  there  are  four  or  five  hundred  of  them. 


FROM  NANTES   TO  ANGERS 

All  the  remarkable  men  or.  women  of  his  time  are 
here  in  profile,  liberally  interpreted.  They  give  us 
the  history  of  the  age,  an  age  of  excitement  and  hard 
work.  They  reveal  the  inner  workings  and  endless 
diversity  of  the  soul. 

Other  large  terra-cotta  busts  are  very  noteworthy. 
There  is  Armand  Carrel,  for  instance,  lank,  with  high 
cheek-bones,  full-faced,  pointed  and  keen  as  a  blade, 
sharp  and  bitter ;  and  the  heroic  bust  of  David  the 
elder,  wearing  a  moustache,  hollow-eyed,  with  deep 
sockets  and  bloated  cheeks,  an  eager  Republican 
giant,  full  of  spirit  and  action,  bold  and  explosive. 


TOULOUSE. 

THERE  is  too  much  to  say.  I  have  seen  the  Picture 
Gallery  and  the  Exhibition  at  Toulouse,  have  dined 
with  new-made  friends,  driven  into  the  country,  and 
so  on. 

I  may  say  at  once  that  the  Toulouse  Gallery  con- 
tains a  few  fine  pictures  which  I  had  not  previously 
seen  : — a  Carrache,  a  portrait  by  Mirevelt,  a  curious 
portrait  of  Descartes  as  a  young  man,  and  a  fine  Van 
der  Meulen.  There  are  a  few  Italian  canvases.  One 
of  them  is  a  charming  little  Guardi,  in  the  room 
above.  It  is  a  Venetian  holiday,  a  sort  of  regatta  of 
gondolas,  around  a  vast  gilded  Bucentaur,  like  a  sea- 
monster,  encased  in  scales  of  gold.  On  board  are 
signors  and  councillors  in  their  robes,  and  a  number 
of  masked  figures,  male  and  female,  black  masks  and 
pale  silk  robes,  with  little  masculine  hats  on  their 
heads.  Round  about  them  sport  the  steel-prowed 
gondolas.  The  sea  glows  with  softened  brightness, 
beneath  a  sky  of  tender  blue,  spread  with  tranquil 
fleecy  clouds.  And  like  a  precious  frame  to  the 

238 


TOULOUSE  239 

picture,  or  like  a  capriciously-woven  border  of  lace, 
Venice  surrounds  the  broad  sea  canvas  with  St  Mark, 
the  palaces  of  the  Procurators,  the  quays  and  domes, 
the  laughing  throng  on  the  broad  pavement. 

There  are  two  excellent  portraits  by  Gros,  of  him- 
self and  his  wife.  He  has  long  curls,  a  soft  black  hat, 
reminding  one,  by  its  extravagance,  of  Van  Dyck  and 
the  Flemish  School,  and  a  broad  soft  muslin  band 
twisted  round  his  neck.  He  is  pale  of  complexion, 
with  fine  eyes,  ardent,  and  full  of  genius.  She  wears 
a  straight  red  Empire  dress,  and  is  round  and  fresh ; 
just  a  little  snappish,  despotic,  and  narrow-minded,  as 
French  women  are  apt  to  be,  but  all  toned  down  by 
the  wealth  and  bloom  of  youth.  You  may  call  her 
his  mistress  if  you  will,  but  she  is  a  mistress  dignified 
by  a  painter  and  a  lover.  The  whole  picture  is  simple 
and  substantial.  Contrast  it  with  the  Courbets  and 
Ricards  in  the  Toulouse  Exhibition,  pictures  of  our 
own  contemporary  style,  which  aim  at  the  petty  or 
the  strange.  It  is  the  same  kind  of  contrast  that  you 
get  between  the  styles  of  Balzac  and  Michelet. 

The  two  pictures  of  Couture  and  Eugene  Delacroix 
gave  me  but  little  pleasure.  They  are  evidently 
tentative  or  improvised.  The  painters  do  not  know 
enough. 

My  new  friends  took  me  to  the  Exhibition  in  order 
to  see  the  hall.  It  is  in  the  old  Jacobin  Convent, 


240  JOURNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

which  has  been  re -decorated  this  year.  It  was 
formerly  the  cavalry  barracks.  It  is  a  vast  red-brick 
building,  with  big  red  buttresses,  almost  windowless  ; 
for  most  of  the  old  windows  have  been  built  up.  It 
dates  from  1238,  and  was  built  for  the  Dominican 
Inquisition.  They  gave  me  several  pamphlets,  with 
the  story  of  a  sick  woman  who  was  burnt  alive — 
admirable ! 

The  church  is  a  masterpiece,  very  original  in  style. 
It  is  divided  into  two  naves  by  a  row  of  very  high 
round  columns,  like  the  trunks  of  palm-trees,  spread- 
ing out  into  fillets  above.  On  this  slender  support 
the  whole  dome  rests.  The  last  column  ends  in  a 
cluster  of  twenty-three  arches,  supporting  the  apse. 
So  high  are  they,  and  so  straight,  so  white  with  their 
crown  of  black  arches  against  the  white  walls,  that 
these  columns  are  like  an  enormous  firework,  or  the 
continuous  play  of  a  fountain.  Nothing  finer  can  be 
imagined  than  their  curves,  nothing  richer  than  their 
clusters.  When  they  have  removed  the  floor  which 
cuts  off  a  storey  from  its  height,  we  shall  have  perhaps 
the  finest  Gothic  nave  in  France — especially  if  the 
windows  are  opened  again,  and  filled  with  painted 
glass.  The  columns  are  so  slender  that  the  two 
naves  are  virtually  one.  The  large  windows,  the 
mingled  hues  of  gold  and  purple  from  the  panes,  will 
fill  this  void  with  a  sort  of  glory.  It  will  glow  like  a 


TOULOUSE  241 

tabernacle,  as  the  Sainte-Chapelle  of  St  Louis  glows 
to-day,  so  richly  adorned,  so  radiant,  so  like  a  shrine 
overflowing  with  radiance  from  the  Virgin,  and  the 
angels,  and  the  Deity.  This  epoch  of  the  Middle  Age 
was  perhaps  the  most  triumphant  and  ecstatic.  It 
was  the  zenith  of  the  power  of  the  Church.  Here,  no 
doubt,  Gothic  art  was  combined  with  some  reminis- 
cence from  Rome,  or  some  half-defined  Arab  innova- 
tion. It  is  worth  considering  whether  in  these  high 
expanding  trunks  and  these  clustered  fillets  there  is 
not  some  distant  imitation  of  the  sculptured  palms 
of  the  Alhambra. 

Two  little  rose-windows  in  the  front  of  the  building 
are  intact,  or  restored  in  keeping  with  the  fragments 
which  have  survived.  That  on  the  left,  purple  and 
ochre  in  its  hues,  is  of  matchless  magnificence.  The 
deep  yellow,  tinged  with  red,  and  lighted  from  with- 
out, is  as  fine,  in  its  contrast  with  the  massive  dark- 
ness of  the  vast  wall  through  which  it  breaks,  as  a 
flaming  southern  horizon  reflected  in  a  lake  under 
the  setting  sun. 

There  is  a  delightful  cloistered  promenade,  not 
very  lofty,  supported  by  a  row  of  slender  columns  in 
couples,  and  surmounted  by  a  roof  of  old  red  tiles. 
This  red  tone  of  the  tiles,  and  of  the  old  bricks  which 
have  long  been  exposed  to  the  sun,  is  universal  at 
Toulouse.  Now  the  venerable  walls  are  scaling  ;  the 

Q 


242  JOURNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

surface  is  broken  by  the  falling  out  of  bricks ;  and 
the  bright  colour  of  those  which  remain  is  set  off  by 
the  darkness  of  the  gaps.  Ivy  clambers  up  them  in 
broad  shining  mantles ;  a  cypress  rears  its  pyramid 
hard  by,  and  young  green  leaves  cling  gaily  to  the 
dark  old  crumbling  wall. 

This  is  a  city  and  a  race  well  endowed  for  the 
culture  of  art.  There  is  a  Conservatoire  of  Music, 
which  sends  promising  recruits  to  Paris  and  to  Italy. 
Toulouse  has  a  school  of  painting  and  drawing,  a 
large  number  of  artists,  a  good  gallery,  and  many 
fine  monuments.  The  girls  will  sing  the  airs  of  five 
or  six  operas  after  hearing  them  on  the  stage  ; 
and  there  are  plenty  of  amateurs  with  musical  taste, 
who  can  play  an  opera  on  the  piano  more  or  less 
correctly. 

I  have  just  seen  Carcassonne  and  Cette.  The 
bright  sunshine,  the  mountains,  the  sea,  the  soft 
horizons,  the  vivacious  inhabitants,  with  their  gossip- 
ing off-hand  ways,  their  ringing  musical  talk,  and 
many  other  features,  bespeak  a  race  which  is  partly 
Italian,  though  of  lighter  build.  Their  union  with 
Frenchmen  of  the  north  prevents  them  from  being 
more  strongly  southern  in  type  ;  it  cut  them  adrift  in 
the  thirteenth  century,  and  they  have  never  been  able 
to  recover  themselves.  Their  aristocracy  live  inert  and 


TOULOUSE  243 

old-fashioned  in  the  country,  and,  having  little 
money,  they  have  grown  miserly :  they  do  not  buy 
pictures  or  support  the  musical  festivals.  If  they 
could  have  developed  their  mediaeval  constitution, 
and  lived  split  up  into  little  independent  sovereign- 
ties, stimulated  by  the  municipal  sentiment,  retaining 
their  local  speech,  and  creating  their  own  literature 
and  manners,  we  should  have  one  nation  the  more, 
another  standard  of  feeling,  another  art.  It  is  part 
of  the  price  which  we  have  had  to  pay  for  cen- 
tralisation in  France.  These  people  live  in  the 
grooves  and  under  the  regulations  devised  for  the 
north. 

In  respect  of  religion  also  they  are  Italian.  I 
believe  there  are  sixty-four  convents  in  Toulouse. 
In  the  country  I  saw  the  monastery  of  the  Trappists, 
who  never  leave  its  precincts,  but  till  the  land,  confess 
through  a  little  grating  of  their  cell,  rise  at  one  in  the 
morning,  and  make  up  their  sleep  with  an  hour  or 
two  in  the  afternoon.  I  saw  a  woman  wandering  in 
the  garden,  in  her  long  robe  of  yellowish  white,  like 
a  poor  spectre,  bowed  and  sickly,  amidst  the  bright 
and  happy  landscape.  There  are  four-score  of  them. 
What  a  gap  this  makes  in  family  life !  A  young  lady 
told  us  of  three  of  her  friends  who  had  taken  the  veil. 
They  are  received  at  the  age  when  women  are  wont 
to  break  out  into  eccentricity,  and  when  their  heads  are 


244  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

full  of  enthusiasm.  One  of  them  said  to  her  mother, 
who  was  weeping  over  her : 

"  Dear  mamma,  you  would  have  given  me  to  a 
husband,  but  I  would  rather  have  Jesus  Christ  for 
my  husband.  We  shall  all  be  together  again  in 
Heaven." 

At  the  age  of  vague  desires,  Jesus,  divine  and  yet 
human,  is  the  incorporeal  husband  to  whom  the 
veiled  cravings  of  modesty  aspire. 

There  is  a  preacher  here  who  has  a  great  reputation. 
My  friends  compare  him  to  George  Sand's  Father 
Onofrio  in  "  Mademoiselle  de  la  Quintinie."  He 
makes  his  converts  with  a  certain  amount  of  force, 
and  is  sometimes  subjected  to  forcible  reprisals  by 
fathers  or  husbands.  Not  long  since,  after  he  had 
ended  his  sermon,  he  led  off  his  audience  to  the 
cemetery,  and  there,  with  the  tombs  lighted  up  by 
torches,  he  spoke  of  the  worms,  the  rotting  body,  and 
the  flames  of  hell.  One  lady,  who  had  recently  lost 
her  eldest  son,  was  carried  away  in  a  fit  of  hysterics. 
At  Cahors,  one  of  the  handsomest  girls  in  the  town 
resolved  to  take  the  veil.  When  she  came  to  the 
church  for  that  purpose,  dressed  in  white  bridal  robes, 
the  men  began  to  murmur  in  pity— 

"  It  is  nothing  but  a  murder ! " 

So  great  was  the  disturbance  that  the  ceremony 
could  not  be  completed. 


TOULOUSE  245 

It  is  the  gay  world,  and  especially  balls,  to  which 
the  clergy  mainly  object.  There  was  a  young  girl 
of  fifteen  who  had  become  very  religious ;  she  used 
to  attend  her  catechism  class  with  great  regularity, 
and  the  priest  urged  her  not  to  go  to  a  ball.  Her 
parents  gave  a  dance,  and  she  wept  because  she  was 
expected  to  take  part  in  the  festivities.  Her  confessor 
backed  her  up ;  but  the  father  insisted  that  she 
should  go,  because  her  mother  wished  it.  But  he 
promised  that  his  daughter  should  only  dance  twice. 
On  the  following  day  her  imagination  had  resumed  its 
empire  ;  she  was  saluted  in  the  streets  by  her  partners 
of  the  previous  night,  and  she  was  no  longer  an 
ardent  catechumen. 

There  are  a  surprising  number  of  street  preachers 
in  Toulouse;  we  are  in  the  midst  of  a  retreat.  I 
can  count  a  score  of  them  as  I  stand  in  the  square 
of  the  Capitol ;  and  there  are  others  in  the  streets 
around. 

One  of  the  most  important  convents  is  that  of 
Marie-Reparatrice.  A  sister  must  have  fifty  or  sixty 
thousand  francs  before  she  can  enter  it.  They 
succeed  each  other  constantly  in  the  chapel,  in  order 
to  worship  and  sing  hymns.  They  may  be  seen 
through  the  railings,  and  it  is  a  poetic  and  attractive 
spectacle.  They  wear  silk  shoes,  and  elegant  robes 
of  blue  and  white.  The  essence  of  Catholicism  in 


246  JOURNEYS    THROUGH  FRANCE 

the  south  is  to  catch  men  by  displays  of  pomp,  by 
the  delight  of  the  eyes,  by  a  timely  diversion  of  the 
sex  instinct,  and  by  the  fear  of  hell  when  the  flesh 
is  growing  weak.  Money  comes  to  the  clergy  in  great 
measure  from  old  men  who  are  beginning  to  think 
about  death. 


CARCASSONNE. 

THIS  old  town,  a  strong  hill-fortress  of  the  Middle 
Age,  is  almost  deserted.  There  are  some  eighteen 
hundred  poor  creatures,  weavers  for  the  most  part,  in 
old  houses  of  lath  and  plaster.  Rudely-built  cottages, 
tottering  or  supported  by  props,  damp  and  un- 
clean, cling  to  the  old  walls  ;  and  in  the  narrow  street, 
amidst  filth  and  unwholesome  refuse,  dirty  ragged 
children  wander  about,  attended  by  swarms  of  flies, 
under  a  leaden  sun,  which  bakes  and  browns  all 
this  human  clay.  It  is  a  fourteenth-century  Ghetto.  | 
On  a  steep,  red,  bare,  abandoned  hill,  the  city 
stands  within  its  double  circuit  of  feudal  walls,  a 
formidable  rampart,  encrusted  with  towers,  bristling 
with  parapets  and  battlements,  all  blackened  in  the 
sun.  You  have  to  climb  up  a  slope,  roughly  strewn 
with  sharp  pebbles,  which  must  have  been  impossible 
in  the  Middle  Age  for  all  but  mounted  men-at-arms, 
or  waggons  drawn  by  oxen.  Narrow  posterns  are 
enclosed  between  great  towers,  and  the  portals  are 

247 


248  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

strongly  built,  with  pointed  arches.  Only  here  and 
there  one  comes  upon  a  few  fine  curves  of  a  floriated 
mullion,  or  an  arched  window  with  delicate  little 
columns.  The  general  effect  is  rude,  forbidding,  and 
sombre. 

The  good  folk  lived  here  as  in  an  eagle's  nest, 
happy  enough  so  long  as  they  were  not  slain :  that 
was  the  luxury  of  the  feudal  age.  The  towers  have 
two  or  three  storeys.  Each  tower  and  each  floor  of 
a  tower  could  be  separately  defended ;  every  enclosure 
could  stand  a  siege.  There  are  embrasures  for  the  ^ 
crossbow-men,  sloping  battlements  for  the  launching \ 
of  stones,  little  tunnels  through  which  to  pour  the| 
molten  lead  or  boiling  oil,  trap-stairs  without  egress] 
so  as  to  snare  the  foe  into  a  sort  of  pit,  in  which  they 
could  be  shot  down  with  arrows,  round  towers  for  a 
sudden  rally,  or  for  the  bodyguard  of  the  count  or 
captain,  notches  in  the  stone  wall  for  the  wooden 
shields  which  covered  the  archers.  The  massing  of 
stonework,  the  manifold  devices  of  attack  and  defence, 
are  amazing.  All  this  was  very  necessary  against  a 
Cceur  de  Lion  or  a  Du  Guesclin,  who,  clad  in  mail, 
covered  by  his  shield,  would  press  forward  in  spite  of 
arrows,  and  hew  down  the  doors  with  his  battle-axe. 
Dimly  across  the  interval  one  can  imagine  the 
assaults,  the  dense  body  of  troops,  the  clang  of  iron 
beneath  the  posterns,  within  the  storeyed  towers, 


CARCASSONNE  249 

along  these  winding  stairs,  and  the  combats  of  well- 
nigh  invulnerable  men,  who  smote  each  other  like 
Cyclops  at  their  forge. 

On  the  ground  floor  of  one  of  those  towers  you 
may  still  behold  a  massive  iron  chain,  fixed  into  a 
pillar,  the  ring  of  which  has  been  vainly  bitten  by 
axe  and  file.  They  found  a  skeleton  here,  below 
the  chain.  It  was  once  a  prison  of  the  Inquisition. 

Unfortunately  the  circuit  of  walls  is  being  restored. 
The  new  clean  stonework,  so  out  of  place  to-day, 
looks  like  a  piece  of  stage  scenery.  But  the  other 
parts,  still  intact,  burnt  by  the  sun,  tanned  and 
reddened  by  time,  incrusted  with  yellow  lichen,  eaten 
into  by  wind  and  rain,  proudly  vaunt  their  broken 
outline,  their  capricious  dilapidation,  their  crumbling 
quaintness,  their  rough  walls.  The  light  that  clings 
to  the  prominent  points  and  smoother  masses  flashes 
out  from  the  black  crevices;  withered  plants  droop 
from  the  disjointed  parapets  ;  a  square  perpendicular 
tower  stands  out  stiff  into  the  blue  from  amidst  the 
dismantled  blocks.^  Nature  has  resumed  possession 
of  this  building  of  man's,  has  given  it  harmony, 
poured  out  upon  it  her  caprice,  her  confusion,  her 
careless  touches,  her  infinite  variety  of  form,  her 
abundant  wealth  of  hueA  G«r»^VA^%rv^ 

St  Nazaire  is  an  attractive  church.     Its  nave,  with 


250  JOURNEYS   THROUGPI  FRANCE 

arches  scarcely  pointed,  is  either  Roman  or  the  next 
thing  to  it.  ;  The  choir  is  later,  and  has  grand 
windows  filled  with  old  painted  glass.  The  idea  was 
ever  the  same,  to  make  the  choir  a  picture  of  Paradise, 
full  of  bright  light  and  celestial  glory.  In  one  window 
are  Adam  and  Eve,  in  their  primeval  condition,  very 
obese  and  very  placid.  Half-way  up  the  pillars  of 
the  choir  there  are  statues,  simple  and  decently  good, 
with  a  fair  amount  of  expression,  and  well  proportioned, 
bearing  manifest  testimony  to  the  fourteenth  century 
and  the  completion  of  the  building. 

In  the  sacristy  is  a  monument  to  a  bishop  whose 
body  has  been  exhumed.  The  stone  figure  is  simple 
and  realistic.  Underneath  is  a  somewhat  crude  pro- 
cession of  little  stone  figures,  approaching  the  death- 
bed, diminutive  forms  in  relief,  much  in  the  manner 
of  the  successors  of  Giotto,  artists  in  their  infancy. 
There  was  a  crypt  containing  tombs,  a  sort  of  water- 
way, with  a  roof  supported  by  short  columns. 

The  whole  of  the  outside  is  being  restored ;  and 
above  the  outer  transept  they  have  patched  up  a 
series  of  very  grotesque  and  ugly  heads — a  mediaeval 
comedy.  But  on  the  right  hand  there  is  a  sort  of 
built-up  window,  ending  in  an  acute  angle,  with 
flower- work  of  the  most  original  and  attractive  kind. 
The  effect  is  Gothic,  compromised  by  Latin  traditions. 
There  is  the  same  thing  at  Beziers.  On  every  side 


CARCASSONNE  2$  I 

we  have  traces  of  an  Italy,  which  did  not  reach  her 
full  development. 

For  compensation,  there  are  new  buildings,  grand 
gardens,  splendid  avenues  of  great  plane-trees  with 
scaling  bark,  watercourses  to  keep  them  constantly 
fresh,  a  murmuring  busy  crowd,  caf<£s,  plenty  of 
carriages  and  diligences  packed  with  gentlemen  of 
a  sort  and  respectable  peasants,  and  any  amount  of 
cheerful  gossip  and  chaff.  It  is  all  very  poor  form, 
this  latter-day  town  of  the  translated  south,  converted 
by  the  north  to  peace,  civilisation,  and  prosperity. 

And  now  Italy  herself  is  yearning  for  this  kind  of 
thing ! 


CETTE. 

AT  eight  in  the  evening  I  rowed  alone  on  the  lake 
of  Thau,  outside  the  town.  It  is  a  stretch  of  water 
bequeathed  by  the  sea,  three  miles  long  by  one  mile 
in  breadth.  Clouds  covered  the  whole  sky ;  from 
time  to  time  the  moon  peeped  through  a  rent,  fording 
from  cleft  to  cleft,  vanishing  as  soon  as  she  appeared, 
after  shedding  a  momentary  stream  of  silver  on  the 
dark  surface  of  the  water.  I  could  just  make  out 
the  vast  round  dome  of  Heaven.  The  horizon  of  the 
land  is  but  a  narrow  coal-black  marsh.  The  heaving 
water  and  the  dripping  mist,  and,  overhead,  the  vast 
opaque  masses  of  leaden  cloud,  fill  up  the  round  of 
space. 

No  words  can  describe  the  hue  of  the  water  on 
such  a  night  as  this — black,  brown,  but  indistinct  and 
rippling  vaguely,  easier  to  hear  than  to  see.  You 
can  distinguish  nothing  from  that  vast  wilderness 
of  floating  forms.  Gradually  the  eyes  become 
accustomed  to  the  darkness,  and  catch  the  imperish- 

252 


CETTE  253 

able  light  which  is  always  distilling  from  water.  Like 
a  glass  in  a  closed  dark  chamber,  like  one  of  those 
sombre  magic  mirrors  of  unfathomable  depth,  it  glows 
obscurely  and  mysteriously,  but  still  it  glows.  The 
head  of  a  tiny  ripple,  the  back  of  a  broad  wave,  the 
polished  wall  of  a  tranquil  depth,  the  doubtful  quiver 
of  a  pool,  win  some  flash  of  brightness,  reflect  some 
far-off  ray  of  undulating  light ;  and  all  these  feeble 
glimmers  overlap  and  cross  and  melt  into  each 
other,  and  so,  from  the  great  wandering  blackness, 
there  emerges  a  sort  of  luminous  pallor,  as  of  a  metal 
distinguished  in  the  dark — an  atom  of  imperceptible 
light,  drowned  in  the  heavy  folds  of  the  cloud,  and 
in  the  commingling  of  far-away  forms. 

Twice  or  thrice  the  moon  came  forth,  and  her 
broad  quivering  beam  was  as  that  of  a  solitary  lamp, 
lit  up  amongst  black  hanging  draperies,  in  some 
prodigious  dome  of  a  mortuary  chapel.  On  the 
horizon,  like  a  procession  of  coffins  and  torches, 
halting  at  an  immense  distance,  is  the  low,  black, 
sleeping  coast,  with  two  or  three  lights  at  each 
corner  of  the  catafalque. 

There  was  a  wonderful  stillness  on  the  broad  canal 
by  which  I  returned.  Not  a  single  boat,  not  a  breath 
of  wind  was  stirring.  The  lights  of  Cette  were  drawn 
out  into  long  tremulous  lines  on  the  sheet  of  motion- 
less water.  The  stillness  of  the  dark  and  glowing 


254  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

stream  touched  me  to  the  quick  with  mingled  horror 
and  pleasure.  As  I  drew  nearer  to  the  town,  and 
the  black  line  of  houses  cut  a  bolder  pattern  out  of 
the  sky,  the  glitter  and  placidity  of  the  water  became 
yet  more  striking ;  and  presently  the  canal  was  a  trail 
of  soft  white  light  between  two  banks  of  gloomy  shapes. 
What  a  contrast  to  my  arrival  on  the  previous  day 
— sunset  on  the  polished  mirror  of  the  lake,  the 
fire  of  yellow  and  indigo  on  the  horizon,  reflected 
with  more  metallic  and  intense  brightness  on  the 
resplendent  surface,  earth  and  sky  lit  up  in  every 
corner,  and  above  this  fluent  splendour  a  pale,  pacific, 
spotless  azure,  in  which  already  sparkled  the  first 
javelin-points  of  the  approaching  host  of  stars. 


A  VISIT  TO  AIGUES-MORTES. 

WE  set  out  at  six  in  the  morning,  and  had  a  car- 
riage drive  of  an  hour  and  a  half  across  the  wide  plain 
between  Lunel  and  Aigues-Mortes.  This  plain  is  an 
old  river  deposit,  embanked  in  the  sixteenth  century. 
In  some  places  there  is  a  depth  of  five  metres  of 
fertile  soil.  It  is  all  laid  down  in  vines.  The 
stocks  are  as  thick  as  your  fist,  and  one  branch 
will  often  yield  ten  litres  of  wine.  In  spite  of  the 
large  quantity  exported,  it  is  so  cheap  that  a 
hundred  litres  sold  last  year  for  five  francs.  There 
are  not  many  poor  people.  The  land  is  much  sub- 
divided, and  recent  extensions  of  trade  have  made 
everybody  prosperous. 

The  landscape  is  not  out  of  the  common,  or 
worthy  of  much  remark.  A  great  level  tract,  dotted 
here  and  there  by  a  group  of  parasol-pines  and 
white  poplars ;  an  occasional  cypress,  a  row  of  plane- 
trees,  a  village  surrounded  by  old  broad  walks,  and 
set  with  beautiful  trees.  There  are  vines  on  every 

255 


256  JOURNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

hand,  self-supported,  then  fields  of  lucerne,  and 
marshy  lands,  grazed  by  the  horses  of  the  Camargtie. 
There  is  a  round  tower  in  the  far  horizon.  On 
the  right,  a  broken  zigzag,  showing  the  line  of  the 
distant  mountains.  But  the  effect  is  charming. 
There  was  a  slight  continuous  breeze,  which  cooled 
and  refreshed  us.  The  quiet  soft  landscapes  passed 
us  like  the  visions  of  a  dream ;  every  shade  of 
colour  was  fine  and  delicate,  for  the  clear  sky 
subdued  the  earthly  tints.  The  roads  stretch  out 
before  us  in  long  white  even  bands;  the  silvered 
trunks  of  the  plane-trees  are  tinted  with  a  feeble 
green ;  the  innumerable  tamarisks,  which  fringe  the 
roads  and  fields,  are  hempen-grey;  the  leaves  of 
plane  and  poplar,  as  they  turn  in  the  breeze,  display 
the  dull  white  cotton  of  their  under-sides.  Little 
patches  of  flowers  diversify  the  green  fields  with 
stripes  of  subdued  amaranth.  The  long  -  stalked 
scented  herbs  make  a  soft  blue  border  under  the 
roadside  hedges.  The  very  houses,  some  white  and 
new,  others  old  and  grey  with  time,  the  dull  red 
roofs,  the  ash-grey  farm-buildings,  add  their  sombre 
tints  to  the  softer  harmonies  of  nature.  Only  the 
omnipresent  light  plays  over  the  face  of  all  things, 
and  knows  neither  contrast  nor  limits.  And  the 
crowning  sky  is  a  pale  and  silky  azure,  rising  im- 
perceptibly into  a  bright  unmixed  blue,  though  its 


A    VISIT  TO  A1GUES-MORTES  2$? 

dome  is  streaked  with  slender  veins,  fine  cloudlets 
drawn  out  like  diaphanous  gauze,  as  it  were  a  delicate 
cocoon  on  the  point  of  floating  away. 

The  city  walls  are  very  curious,  being  almost  as 
perfect  as  when  they  were  built.  The  whole  city  is 
enclosed  by  them,  as  a  protection  against  the  floods  ; 
and  from  the  top  of  the  Constance  Tower  this  multitude 
of  low-lying  roofs  in  their  stone  enclosure  are  like  so 
many  draughts  on  a  draught-board. 

The  fortifications  remind  one  of  those  of  Car- 
cassonne, which  dates,  like  this  town,  from  the  time 
of  Saint  Louis.  There  is  a  long,  loopholed,  battle- 
mented  wall,  flanked  at  intervals  by  round  towers. 
Each  gate  has  its  tower ;  the  original  form  is 
preserved  in  all  the  arches;  and  at  one  corner  of 
the  city  there  is  another  vast  round  tower  of  two 
storeys,  with  a  flat  roof  and  a  watch-tower.  This  is 
the  ancient  citadel,  in  which  a  defence  could  be 
maintained  even  if  the  city  were  taken.  Nothing 
could  be  more  simple  or  sensible  than  the  plan  of 
its  construction.  It  is  just  an  enormous  wall  pierced 
by  loopholes,  and  thick  enough  to  contain  a  flight 
of  steps.  At  each  stage  there  is  a  lofty  stone  hall, 
the  pointed  roof  springing  from  the  sides  in  a  cluster 
of  arches.  There  is  a  dungeon  in  the  centre,  and 
a  vast  fireplace  and  chimney.  A  dim  light  falls  from 
above,  and  through  a  row  of  short  arched  bays 

R 


258  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

looking  upon  the  steps.  This  round  hollow  shell 
of  bare  stone,  this  cold  grey  light  which  seems  to 
slumber  for  ever  unchanged,  is  decidedly  forbidding. 
Amidst  the  prevailing  obscurity,  the  frowning  stone 
and  the  stern  outlines  of  the  tower,  it  is  a  strange 
relief  to  come  upon  a  boss  of  carved  flowers, 
supporting  the  arches  where  they  spring  from  the 
wall. 

From  the  platform  above  there  is  a  view  of  the 
plain,  bounded  on  one  horizon  by  a  scarcely  per- 
ceptible violet  line  of  mountains.  On  the  other 
sides,  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  save  where  it 
sinks  into  the  boundless  sea,  the  green  plain  is 
parcelled  out  by  watercourses,  which  glitter  like 
sheets  of  polished  silver;  and  the  ocean  spreads 
a  broad  mirror  of  sombre  blue. 


FROM    ARLES   TO  MARSEILLES. 

IN  the  museum  at  Aries  are  the  ruins  discovered  in 
the  theatre  at  Alyscamps,  the  ancient  Gallo- Roman 
cemetery.  The  chief  fragment  is  a  head  of  Venus, 
very  beautiful.  The  admirable  fulness  of  the  upper 
part  of  the  cranium  impresses  one  with  a  sense  of  the 
force  and  genius  of  the  race  which  produced  it.  The 
mouth  is  small  and  half-open  ;  the  upper  lip  is  rather 
full  and  prominent — it  is  almost  the  mouth  of  a 
tragic  mask.  The  expressionless  eyes,  rounded 
cheeks,  broad  strong  chin,  are  at  once  serious  and 
simple  in  character.  It  is  a  woman  of  five-and- 
twenty,  in  the  very  bloom  of  youth.  There  is  the 
idea  of  gravity,  even  of  sadness,  which  belongs  to 
animalism  at  rest. 

The  tomb  of  Apollo  is  fine.  Above  it  stand  the 
Nine  Muses,  much  mutilated,  but  slender,  tall  as  the 
women  of  the  Primaticcio,  their  close  drapery  re- 
sponding to  the  most  sensitive  and  graceful  motions 
of  the  supple  body,  of  the  balanced  limb  and  bended 

knee.     Oh  the  delicacy  of  the  sculptor's  art !     How 

259 


260  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

it   wakens   all    that    is    natural   and    vivid,   all    the 
happiness  and  simplicity  of  life ! 

By  contrast,  the  Christian  tombs  of  the  third  and 
fourth  centuries  are  singularly  instructive.  Is  it 
possible  that  two  centuries  should  have  exhibited 
such  a  decay !  Heads  too  big,  feet  clumsily  set  and 
out  of  proportion,  stiff  bodies,  awkward  limbs,  silly 
expressions !  There  is  no  art  here. 

Saint-Trophime — The  gabled  facade,  in  Italian 
style,  recalls  Siena  and  Pisa,  with  the  impression  of 
elegance  and  solidity  which  is  characteristic  of  that 
architecture.  The  portico,  though  its  carvings  are 
crude  enough,  is  a  masterpiece.  We  have  an  ancient 
ornate  pediment,  supported  by  heads  of  lions  and 
goats.  Above  the  door  is  a  Christ,  thin,  conventional 
in  the  ecclesiastical  sense,  with  bony  knees  and  long 
thin  feet,  seated  between  two  angels,  who  hold  the 
Gospel  before  Him,  and  surrounded  by  quaint  symbolic 
animals.  The  whole  vault  above  His  head  is  occupied 
by  a  double  row  of  busts  and  winged  heads  of  angels, 
with  richly  carved  arabesque,  whilst  on  either  side 
are  long  descending  series  of  saints,  in  attitudes  of 
stiff  monastic  ecstasy.  Nothing  could  be  richer  or 
more  satisfying  to  the  eye  than  this  effect  of  figures 
and  foliage.  This  multitudinous  character  is  one 
of  the  best  marks  of  the  mediaeval  genius, 


FROM  ARLES   TO  MARSEILLES  26 1 

On  the  [two  sides  are  details  which  reminded  me 
of  a  pulpit  in  San  Nicolas  at  Pisa.  On  the  right,  the 
naked  souls  of  the  damned  are  fleeing  from  the 
presence  of  the  Deity,  fettered  to  a  long  iron  chain, 
and  driven  by  a  repulsive,  jeering  demon.  Opposite 
to  these  is  a  procession  of  sainted  men  and  women 
in  long  robes,  after  the  ancient  manner — as  in  the 
pictures  of  the  Campo  Santo,  or  of  Simon  Memmius. 
There  are  several  antique  heads  and  accessories. 
Some  of  the  figures  are  clad  like  Dacian  kings  of 
the  third  century;  a  few  of  the  saints  wear  togas 
and  folding  robes.  But  almost  all,  unfortunately, 
have  the  grimace  which  was  at  this  time  becoming  a 
convention  of  the  art  of  sculpture.  A  strange 
blending  of  the  Gothic  and  the  antique  is  manifest 
throughout. 

The  exterior  cannot  be  seen,  for  it  is  elbowed  close 
by  houses.  But  from  the  neighbouring  cloister  of 
Saint-Trophime  you  may  distinguish  a  high  square 
belfry  of  four  storeys.  This  solid  massive  con- 
struction varies  the  whole  impression ;  you  realise, 
then,  that  you  are  in  a  southern  land. 

The  cloister  itself  is  one  of  the  strangest  of  sights. 
It  is  a  promenade  about  a  square  plot  of  grass, 
manifestly  counting  its  age  by  centuries.  The 
heavy  stone  wall  and  arched  roof,  supported  by 
couples  of  slender  columns,  is  clumsy  enough.  The 


262  JOURNEYS   THROUGPI  FRANCE 

architect  had  no  feeling  for  harmonies  and  pro- 
portions ;  he  simply  groped  amongst  his  instinctive 
tendencies  and  his  conventional  reminiscences.  But 
the  carving  is  especially  barbarous.  Several  of  the 
heads  measure  one-third,  or  even  one-half  of  the 
trunk.  In  the  Ascension  of  Christ  they  are  pitiable 
and  grotesque,  giving  one  the  idea  of  a  caricature. 
In  the  Massacre  of  the  Innocents,  the  executioners 
in  their  coats  of  mail  look  like  shaggy  beasts,  with 
sheeps'  heads.  The  gawky  mothers,  the  jumble  and 
confusion  of  the  bodies,  the  riot  of  ignorance  and 
caprice,  the  three  horses  of  the  Magi  clapped  one 
upon  the  other,  the  facial  expressions  reminding  you 
of  bewildered  frogs,  are  things  to  be  seen  rather 
than  described.  Yet,  even  in  such  a  medley  and  ex- 
cess, you  may  appreciate  the  fervour  which  at  that 
period  revelled  amongst  the  legends  of  the  saints. 
There  are  a  few  fine  figures  at  the  angles  of  a  pillar, 
and  in  particular  a  saint  at  the  corner  of  a  cistern, 
a  dried  skeleton  with  narrow  sloping  shoulders,  with 
very  little  in  the  way  of  cheeks  or  chin,  with  barely 
any  forehead,  the  eyes  alone  occupying  most  of  the 
face,  like  a  shrunken  fakir  consumed  by  his  ecstasy, 
with  lank  marrowless  bones,  such  as  you  see  in  an 
Indian  ascetic.  Amongst  the  smaller  figures  near 
to  this  is  a  poor  corpse-like  Christ,  with  great  big 
eyes  in  an  attenuated  face,  and  St  John  leaning  on 


I 

FROM  ARLES   TO  MARSEILLES  26$ 

His  bosom.  On  such  ideas  the  faithful  few  were  wont 
to  feed  their  hearts.  This  belongs  to  the  eleventh 
century,  when  the  Normans  and  Hungarians  carried 
all  before  them. 

Aries  is  just  like  an  Italian  city.  Irregular  streets, 
tumbledown  buildings,  here  and  there  the  ruins  of  an 
arcade ;  in  the  public  square  two  Roman  columns, 
half  buried  in  the  wall ;  an  old,  dilapidated,  weather- 
beaten  city  wall ;  an  ancient  square  mediaeval  tower ; 
hard  by  a  theatre  in  ruins ;  a  medley  of  houses  on 
the  rising  ground ;  bare  walls  with  scarcely  a  single 
window ;  a  chaos  of  many  centuries ;  a  solitary  fig- 
tree,  and  grass  growing  thick  in  the  crevices. 

I  sat  in  the  theatre,  on  the  semicircle  of  the  broad 
stone  tiers.  In  front  is  all  that  remains  of  the 
stage — two  columns  of  speckled  marble  supporting 
a  fragment  of  entablature ;  by  their  side  fragments 
of  the  shafts  of  the  next  two  columns ;  beside 
these,  the  pediments  of  another  row  of  columns 
which  have  disappeared  ;  on  the  ground,  fragments 
of  fluted  shafts.  These  relics  suffice  to  show  the 
general  plan. 

What  a  gap  there  is  between  this  dramatic  art 
and  our  own  !  Imagine  16,000  spectators  here  in  the 
daylight ;  actors  with  masks  and  a  sort  of  speaking- 
tube  ;  a  drama  sung  like  a  recitative  at  the  opera ; 


264  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

bright  flowing  robes ;  groups  of  sculpture  such  as 
one  can  imagine  from  the  Aldobrandini  nuptial 
fresco,  which  Poussin  copied.  We  ought  to  realise 
these  material  accessories  of  an  ancient  drama  before 
venturing  to  say  a  word  about  it. 

A  theatre  on  the  scale  here  indicated  must  have 
been  more  like  a  circus  than  any  theatre  of  our 
day. 

One  impression  dwells  constantly  in  the  eyes 
in  all  these  towns  and  villages  of  the  south — a 
greyness  on  a  background  of  white,  a  grey  effect 
even  in  the  brilliant  light.  Cette  is  especially 
notable  for  this.  In  a  white  dusty  street,  with  a 
keen  brightness  in  the  air,  amidst  the  sudden 
flashes  of  light  which,  at  certain  angles,  are  like 
direct  sunbeams,  and  beneath  the  predominant 
azure  which  vaults  the  sky,  the  houses  have  the 
appearance  of  plastered  mud  baked  hard  by  the 
sun.  Nothing  could  be  more  dull  to  look  at  than 
those  grey  walls,  caked  with  ancient  dust,  relieved 
by  very  few  windows,  and  surmounted  by  dim- 
coloured  tiles. 

At  Aries,  as  at  Avignon,  all  is  Italian  :  it  is 
France  and  not  France.  The  steep  rough  streets, 
only  half-lighted  in  the  evening  by  distant  flicker- 
ing lamps,  are  like  those  of  Rome  and  Perugia 


• 
FROM  ARLES  TO  MARSEILLES  26$ 

long  dark  passages,  forbidding,  full  of  twists  and 
turns,  as  it  were  sewers  of  uncanny  blackness.  Water 
collects  in  the  middle,  and,  as  you  advance  through 
the  dark,  it  is  reflected  from  the  uneven  stones  in 
lurid  gleams.  You  are  constantly  coming  upon 
forlorn  nooks  and  corners.  Other  lanes  are  full  of 
humming  sounds,  as  of  bees  about  to  swarm.  There 
are  men  and  women  at  the  mouths  of  their  lairs, 
like  so  many  shades,  who  fill  the  air  with  harsh 
resounding  noise.  As  you  pass  there  is  an  indistinct 
group  of  heads,  a  weird  hovel  with  a  few  sticks 
of  furniture  quaking  in  the  feeble  yellow  flicker  of  a 
lamp,  a  rickety  staircase  leading  up  into  the  black- 
ness of  darkness.  And  all  day  long  the  squares 
and  streets  are  full  of  idle  gossipers  and  loungers. 

Yet  at  Marseilles,  as  at  Cette,  you  have  the 
delightful  sparkling  blue  sea,  which  is  the  most 
beautiful  thing  in  the  world.  I  drove  out  between 
two  examinations,  and  took  a  cup  of  coffee  in  the 
balcony  of  the  Reserve.  The  sea  was  like  a  sheet 
of  metal  straight  from  the  forge,  all  inlaid  and 
damascened  with  shining  arabesques.  A  million 
lights  flashed  over  this  embossed  surface  of  deepest 
blue,  as  they  flash  over  a  richly  chased  cuirass.  The 
tone  varies  from  a  dim  clouded  amethyst  to  a  pure 
sapphire,  thence  to  the  green  glitter  of  a  turquoise, 


266  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

and  to  the  soft  pale  silk  which  dies  into  the  white- 
ness of  the  sky.  And  who  shall  find  a  comparison 
for  that  sky  ?  When  a  lovely  girl,  in  the  freshness 
of  her  bloom,  dressed  in  her  bridal  robes,  has  fixed 
her  golden  comb  in  her  hair,  strings  of  pearls  round 
her  throat,  and  diamonds  in  her  ears,  and  when 
all  her  jewels  flash  upon  her  rosy  pulsing  flesh, 
she  covers  herself  with  a  long  white  floating  veil. 
But  her  face  has  filled  the  veil  with  light,  and  the 
gauze  which  is  intended  to  conceal  it  does  but  lend 
it  a  new  glory.  So  is  it  with  these  rocks  and  walls 
of  marble  under  the  misty  air,  which  seizes  the 
splendour  of  the  sun,  and  pours  it  forth  upon  them. 

The  whole  land  has  been  consumed.  Nothing  but 
stones,  rocky  fragments,  long  denuded  spines,  which 
break  through  their  tatters  of  dwindling  growth. 
Plant-life  has  half  disappeared,  leaving  but  the  carcass 
of  the  ground. 

Civilisation  is  too  ancient  here ;  humanity  has 
gnawed  it  to  the  bone.  Yet  at  Marseilles  it  borrows 
new  life,  and  the  flesh  is  returning  to  it.  The  Crau 
is  being  fertilised,  and  devoted  to  vines,  which  yield 
a  strong  and  spirituous  wine.  The  dry  plains  are 
irrigated,  and  the  Durance  is  brought  into  the  town 
by  an  enormous  aqueduct.  Marseilles,  like  a  mighty 
sucker,  draws  in  new  life  and  disperses  it  again. 
It  has  260,000  inhabitants,  and  increases  at  the  rate 


FROM  ARLES  TO  MARSEILLES  267 

of  20,000  a  year.  Through  the  growth  of  Italy  and 
Spain,  the  opening  of  the  Isthmus  of  Suez,  the 
revival  of  all  the  wasted  and  outworn  countries  of 
the  Mediterranean,  it  will  soon  be  a  city  of  half-a- 
million.  There  is  enormous  activity  and  enterprise ; 
they  work  on  a  grander  scale  than  in  Paris. 

One  evening  at  ten  o'clock,  under  a  bright  moon 
and  a  cloudless  sky,  I  followed  the  new  street  between 
the  two  harbours.  A  hill  was  levelled  in  making 
it.  The  city  sold  the  sites  for  twenty  million  francs. 
The  Pereira  Brothers  are  spending  thirty  or  forty 
millions  in  building  houses,  all  of  them  simultaneously, 
each  enormous,  in  six  storeys,  and,  reckoning  by  my 
own  hotel,  with  staircases  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  steps. 
They  are  constructed  of  large  hewn  stone,  white  and 
carved.  Some  are  finished,  others  half  finished,  others 
again  just  rising  from  their  foundations,  amidst  scaf- 
folding, cranes,  steam-winches,  supplies  of  flowing 
water.  The  street  is  like  some  Baalbec  incomplete 
and  deserted.  Indeed,  under  the  Roman  empire,  they 
built  cities  as  we  do  to-day,  all  at  once,  by  combining 
their  capital  and  organising  their  labour. 

The  mansion  of  the  Prefet,  which  is  nearly  finished, 
will  cost  ten  millions.  The  streets  are  broader 
than  ours  in  Paris ;  their  difference  of  level,  the 
elevation  of  the  hills  over  which  they  pass,  the  great 
spreading  plane-trees,  of  which  there  are  four  rows 


268  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

in  twenty  avenues,  the  streams  of  clear  water  flowing 
on  all  sides,  and,  above  all,  the  enormous  harbour, 
which  is  being  doubled  and  trebled  in  size,  and  the 
vast  structures  connected  with  it,  all  make  of  Mar- 
seilles a  Liverpool  of  the  south. 

On  my  first  evening  here,  after  dinner,  with  a 
clear  sky  and  good  weather,  the  impression  which  it 
made  on  me  was  profound.  It  is  a  pagan  city  of 
the  decadence,  like  Alexandria,  Antioch,  Rome  or 
Carthage.  Immense  is  the  power  of  a  great  adminis- 
trative body,  which  moves  enormous  stones,  builds 
palaces,  covers  them  with  sculpture,  diverts  rivers, 
does  everything  magnificently ;  controls  the  shops, 
the  lights,  the  great  gilded  cafes,  the  theatres,  ships, 
merchandise,  warehouses  crammed  with  treasure  from 
all  parts  of  the  world. 

And  not  a  spark  of  soul.  Nothing  but  a  quest  of 
crude,  material,  sordid  pleasure.  There  are  the 
lorettes,  the  girls  who  dance,  the  women  who  sing 
coarse  and  catchy  songs  in  the  music-halls,  the  street- 
walkers, insolent  and  gaudy,  jocular  and  shallow- 
pated,  caring  for  nothing  but  physical  pleasure, 
swaggering  luxury,  and  passing  whims — all  kept 
within  their  grooves  by  force  and  custom,  by  fear  of 
the  police  and  the  social  organisation.  Such  towns 
as  this  are  necessary. 

Marseilles  is  a  spoiled  city  ;    it  is  full  of  jobbery 


FROM  ARLES  TO  MARSEILLES  269 

and  dishonesty.  Fortunes  are  made  in  a  hurry,  and 
men  are  not  too  particular  how  they  make  them. 
A  city  of  this  sort  is  like  the  Mires  ;  but  it  is 
productive,  it  makes  money,  civilises  and  fertilises. 
There  is  a  kind  of  boldness  and  liberality  which  can 
only  thrive  on  hot-beds.  It  is  different  from  the 
philosophical  rascaldom  and  adroit  trickery  such  as 
we  have  in  Paris,  in  the  pages  of  Balzac,  in  the 
columns  of  our  inferior  prints.  It  is  a  coarser  state 
of  things,  proper  to  the  braggart  of  the  south  country, 
who  can  best  you  in  talk,  who  is  noisy,  impudent, 
and  narrow-minded.  His  only  superiority  to  the 
Parisian  is  his  greater  vitality,  the  inexhaustible  re- 
dundancy of  his  fibre. 


BERRE. 

BERRE  is  a  little  town  of  1800  souls,  on  a  tongue  of 
low  land,  amidst  the  salt  works  of  the  great  salt 
marsh.  This  great  marsh  is  nine  leagues  broad,  but 
it  is  not  a  lake  so  much  as  a  lagoon. 

There  are  a  few  fine  old  trees,  with  ample 
foliage,  one  of  them  being  as  large  in  girth  as  six 
men.  A  spring,  feeding  a  stream  on  the  southern 
side,  creates  a  fertile  strip  of  land.  But  the  rest  is 
desolate,  and  as  much  neglected  as  the  worst  sample 
of  Italy. 

Most  of  the  streets  are  remarkably  narrow 
and  evil  -  smelling,  being  as  dirty  as  though 
the  dust  and  mud  had  been  left  untouched 
for  centuries.  They  are  rough,  with  pointed 
little  stones,  scattered  with  refuse,  rotten  fruit, 
and  vegetables.  There  are  swarms  of  flies,  whose 
bites  inflame  the  skin.  Some  of  the  hovels  had  their 
doors  open,  with  a  torn  curtain  hanging  across.  I 
could  see  a  mattress,  a  sleeping  man,  a  woman,  and 

a  heap  of  onions,  the  whole  lighted  up  by  a  dazzling 
270 


BERRE  271 

sunbeam.  Beside  a  cart  laden  with  grapes  were 
some  children,  dirty  and  ragged  as  lazzaroni,  one  of 
them  blotched  all  over  his  face,  others  scrofulous, 
and  all  were  working  their  ringers  into  the  baskets. 
Seated  on  the  trunk  of  a  tree  was  a  woman,  nursing 
in  her  lap  a  little  yellow-faced,  black-eyed  girl  of  ten, 
who  was  anything  but  a  cleanly  object. 

The  chief  hotel  is  on  the  strand.  It  is  a  big, 
dilapidated,  eighteenth-century  barrack  of  a  place, 
half-deserted,  and  unclean  as  a  Spanish  posada ;  the 
ironwork  of  the  front  flight  of  steps  has  been  twisted 
until  the  brick  steps  themselves  are  disjointed; 
within,  it  is  like  an  impromptu  picnic.  Here,  as 
elsewhere  in  the  neighbourhood,  the  spirit  of  laz- 
zaronism  prevails. 

In  the  Card  and  the  Ardeche,  I  was  told  by 
a  commercial  traveller,  the  people  live  on  their 
mulberries  and  silkworms,  which  involve  about 
forty  days'  work  in  the  year.  Just  now  there  is  a 
disease  amongst  the  worms,  and  the  mulberries  are 
beginning  to  disappear.  The  good  folk  are  none  the 
less  merry  for  that;  they  chatter,  laugh,  sit  in  the 
cafes,  pay  three  sous  for  a  meal,  or  even  one,  though 
the  ordinary  price  is  ten,  and  spend  half  the  day  in 
idle  gossip.  Living  is  wonderfully  cheap.  A  litre  of 
wine,  unmixed  and  heady,  costs  two  sous ;  a  month 
hence  it  will  only  fetch  one.  They  told  me  of  a  vine- 


2/2  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

grower  who  got  rid  of  his  surplus,  after  a  good  harvest, 
by  letting  the  soldiers  drink  as  much  as  they  liked  at 
two  sous  an  hour.  Another,  being  in  a  hurry  for  his 
hogsheads,  and  not  wishing  to  empty  them  into  the 
gutter,  planted  one  by  the  roadside  where  the  soldiers 
were  wont  to  pass.  There  was  a  tap  and  a  glass,  and 
all  who  cared  for  it  could  drink.  At  Toulouse,  a 
lieutenant  told  me  a  similar  story.  He  was  taking 
some  recruits  through  this  district,  and  they  were 
offered  wine  at  one  sou  the  litre. 

The  grapes  are  delicious,  and  the  people  get  them 
for  the  trouble  of  gathering.  At  Toulouse  they  pay 
one  sou  to  enter  the  vineyards,  and  the  grapes  sell 
for  three  half-sous  in  the  town. 

It  is  so  hot  that  one  needs  no  more  clothing  than 
in  Italy.  Nature  is  too  kind  here;  the  less  we  do, 
the  more  she  indulges  us.  But  humanity  gains  her 
positive  triumphs  in  proportion  to  her  physical 
efforts.  If  you  would  leap  a  ten-foot  ditch,  you  make 
a  twelve-foot  spring. 

This  wine  does  not  keep;  it  will  scarcely  bear 
carrying.  They  do  not  make  it  well;  they  allow 
the  grapes  to  become  over-ripe,  and  are  not  careful 
enough  in  cleaning  the  vats  and  barrels. 

I  had  a  talk  with  the  boatman  who  rowed  me  on 
the  lake,  and  who  in  the  meantime  ate  grapes,  and 
drank  from  a  large  flask  of  wine.  He  had  seen 


BERRE  273 

service  in  various  cruisers,  had  been  to  London,  to 
Mexico,  Ceylon,  and  Batavia.  On  his  discharge,  he 
married  at  forty,  and  now  he  has  a  child,  an  old 
sailing-boat,  a  carrying  business  between  Berre  and 
Martigues ;  and  he  does  a  little  fishing.  In  two  years 
he  will  be  fifty,  and  will  have  a  pension  of  twenty- 
two  sous  a  day;  but  three  per  cent,  of  his  wages 
have  been  deducted  for  this  since  he  was  fifteen. 

It  is  strange  to  see  how  far  Socialism  has  already 
progressed  in  France.  The  State  compels  you  to 
save  money,  makes  you  combine  in  benefit  schemes, 
whether  you  like  it  or  not,  gives  you  an  allowance 
when  you  are  sick,  and  treats  you  like  a  child  incap- 
able of  providing  against  old  age.  This  guardianship 
over  a  nation  in  its  minority  greets  you  at  every  step. 
The  provinces  are  like  a  second  France,  under  the 
guardianship  of  Paris,  which  civilises  and  emancipates 
it  from  a  distance  by  its  agents,  its  movable  garri- 
sons, its  colonies  of  officials,  its  newspapers,  and,  to 
some  small  extent,  by  its  books. 

The  marsh,  which  looks  blue  as  a  periwinkle 
before  you  come  close  to  it,  in  its  bowl  of  marble, 
blackened  here  and  there  by  the  weather,  is  very 
different  when  you  are  sailing  over  it.  The  general 
effect  is  that  of  a  slaty  tint  of  clouded  grey ;  a  sort 
of  dull  blue,  dimly  flecked  as  it  were  with  wine-lees. 

s 


2/4  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

The  mountains  have  little  grandeur  or  character: 
the  impression  is  simply  that  of  a  wide  stretch  of 
water  under  a  roof  of  heavy  clouds.  There  are  no 
waves,  nor  foam,  only  the  endless  agitation,  as  far  as 
the  eye  can  reach,  without  effort  and  without  violence, 
of  myriads  of  little  ripples,  confined  to  a  sad  and 
commonplace  existence. 

Berre  lies  behind  us,  with  its  dull  red  and  yellow 
houses,  crowded  round  the  old  grey  church  tower. 
The  bank  is  so  low  that  they  seem  to  be  rising  out 
of  the  water,  and  their  bold  outline  stands  up  from 
the  dubious  margin  of  the  marsh.  On  the  northern 
side  the  heaps  of  salt  obtrude  their  harsh  white  geo- 
metrical forms,  contrasting  with  patches  of  dingy 
verdure,  and  the  glitter  of  the  silent  pools ;  whilst  all 
around  is  the  starred  and  creviced  basin  of  the  hills, 
scarred  old  rocks  which  seem  to  have  been  alter- 
nately slashed  with  a  knife  and  crusted  over  with 
lichens. 

The  lake  is  in  some  places  as  much  as  thirty  feet 
deep,  but  large  tracts  are  barely  covered  with  water  ; 
and  here  the  submarine  growth  is  of  a  faint  bluish 
green — thin  bare  stalks,  and  a  sort  of  amphibious 
moss,  in  which  the  crabs  are  interlaced,  and  the 
mussels  glue  themselves  together.  Other  plants 
raise  their  tiny  heads  above  the  surface,  and  make 
a  ragged  picture  to  the  eye,  which  has  grown  accus- 


BERRE  275 

tomed  to  the  bright  fluent  softness  of  the  wide  ex- 
panse of  waters. 

As  the  wind  falls,  this  monotonous  brightness 
becomes  more  marked ;  the  ripples  sink  to  rest,  and 
no  longer  catch  the  long  rays  of  light ;  only  now  an 
endless  succession  of  luminous  waves  pierce  the 
deeper  shadows,  with  sparkling  pearly  tints,  then 
melt  into  the  grey  and  brown,  ever  the  same,  with  no 
sharp  line  to  break  the  boundless  flood  of  animated 
light.  It  might  have  been  a  sheet  of  ice,  which 
swayed  without  cracking,  and  by  its  gentle  motion 
alternately  lightened  and  darkened  its  melting  greens 
and  blacks  and  greys  of  light  and  shade.  Meanwhile 
the  sun,  high  above  our  heads,  darts  an  infinitude  of 
rays  into  this  great  boiling  cauldron ;  and  wrapped 
in  this  briny  mist  one  sinks  into  a  feverish  dis- 
quieting torpor. 


ORANGE. 

THIS  is  an  ugly  little  hole,  with  narrow,  uneven,  dirty 
streets.  And  there  is  a  statue  of  the  second  Count 
Raimbaud,  who  died  in  the  Holy  Land,  in  an  odour 
of  sentimental  piety,  given  by  Louis  Philippe  of  all 
men  !  Here,  if  anywhere,  you  appreciate  our  French 
centralisation,  and  its  absurd  lack  of  harmony. 

But  the  theatre  is  unique,  and  one  should  not  miss 
seeing  it.  Here  it  is  plain  that  we  have  evidence  of 
a  complete  civilisation.  I  could  make  a  study  of 
Sophocles,  taking  this  as  my  point  of  departure. 

Observe,  in  the  first  place,  the  vast  size  of  the 
theatre;  it  would  hold  fifteen  or  sixteen  thousand 
persons.  The  edifice,  with  its  stage  and  surrounding 
premises,  has  a  height  of  thirty-four  or  thirty-six 
metres.  It  is  a  prodigious  structure,  reddened  and 
crannied  by  time,  built  of  blocks  as  big  as  the  body 
of  a  man.  Fronting  it,  against  the  mountain  -  side, 
which  saved  the  necessity  of  foundations,  and  formed 
a  natural  amphitheatre,  are  the  circular  stages  of 
seats,  all  but  the  first  five  rows  being  now  covered 

276 


ORANGE  277 

with  earth,  though  the  shape  of  the  rising  tiers  is 
still  visible.  There  are  three  rows  of  columns,  one 
above  another,  and  at  the  top  of  all  is  a  very  high 
wall,  with  the  well-preserved  niches  which  carried  the 
beams  of  the  upper  gallery. 

The  keeper  is  an  old  man  of  seventy-five,  and  he 
has  been  here  since  he  was  twelve.  He  saw  the 
theatre  cleared  under  Charles  X.,  by  M.  Caristie,  of 
its  hovels,  and  its  three  hundred  and  eighty  inhabi- 
tants. From  the  position  of  the  stage,  he  recited 
some  verses  on  the  ruins,  written  by  Legouve  and 
Chenedolle,  and  I  heard  them  from  the  upper  tier  as 
distinctly  as  if  I  had  been  at  the  Theatre  Frangais. 
This  gives  one  a  good  idea  of  the  declamation  of  the 
ancient  drama.  With  the  resonant  mouthpiece 
through  which  they  used  to  speak,  the  actors  must 
have  been  easily  heard.  The  arrangement  is  perfect ; 
the  lofty  wall  at  the  back  throws  out  the  voice  with 
extraordinary  clearness. 

Here  we  have  the  natural  outcome  of  a  native 
southern  civilisation  in  conformity  with  the  climate. 
Our  civilisation  of  to-day  comes  from  the  North,  and 
belongs  not  so  much  to  citizens  as  to  hard-working, 
fully-dressed  men,  who  want  plays  every  evening  to 
amuse  them,  because  they  are  busy  all  day,  and 
demand  a  realistic  drama,  because  they  are  positive 


2/8  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

and  wide-awake.  This  kind  of  drama,  which  is  very 
good  for  Paris,  is  an  incongruity  at  Aries  and  Orange. 
The  genuine  drama  of  the  South  is  such  as  one 
would  get  here,  in  the  open  air,  under  the  splendour 
of  the  sky,  designed  for  people  who  loved  to  sit 
out  in  the  shady  amphitheatres,  who  lounged  and 
slept  on  these  stone  seats,  and  who,  by  their  bent  for 
expansion  and  exaggeration,  took  kindly  to  the 
swelling  periods  of  tragic  declamation. 

A  few  green  fig-trees,  dotted  with  violet  figs,  a  few 
pomegranates  and  low  shrubs,  are  scattered  about  the 
ruins.  A  line  of  broken  capitals  and  shafts  of 
marble  show  the  outer  edge  of  the  stage.  Everything 
looks  as  if  it  had  been  pounded.  In  a  niche  of  the 
enormous  wall  is  a  little  ornamental  column;  at 
intervals  are  the  attachments  of  what  may  have 
been  a  marble  peristyle;  and  there  are  two  or  three 
finely  worked  roses.  Nothing  has  endured  save  what 
was  held  in  the  indestructible  grasp  of  the  heavy 
stonework. 

Looking  from  the  central  fig-tree  towards  the  East, 
one  can  see  the  gaping  triple  series  of  crumbling 
vaults.  The  bright  blue  sky  is  cut  and  torn  by  their 
curves  or  rough  edges,  a  shaky  and  disjointed  frame- 
work, tufted  with  withered  plants  and  dry  grasses. 
More  to  the  right  is  a  lofty  fragment  of  the  outer  side 
wall,  standing  out  sheer  and  without  support  against 


ORANGE  279 

the  glowing  sapphire  of  the.  sky.  More  lofty  still 
the  saddle  of  the  mountain  rises,  grey  and  tawny ; 
whilst  the  shapeless  ruins  are  surmounted  by  all  that 
is  left  of  the  castle  of  the  Counts  of  Orange.  They 
had  utilised  this  theatre  as  a  bastion  of  their  fortress. 

The  effect  is  magnificent ;  it  is  a  victor's  prey  and 
trophy.  The  pile  is  as  grand  and  picturesque  as  any 
of  the  finest  ruins  of  Italy.  Words  fail  me  to  convey 
the  impression  of  those  rising  tiers,  reduced  to  a 
shapeless  fragment ;  of  those  displaced  blocks  through 
which  the  daylight  creeps  ;  of  those  enormous  stones, 
seamed  and  crannied,  with  edges  chipped  and  corners 
broken,  eaten  away,  and  ready  to  fall,  whilst  some 
of  them  are  out  of  their  perpendicular,  and  worn 
down  to  their  last  remaining  layer. 


LYONS. 

I  HAVE  lounged  all  day  in  Lyons,  breathing  its 
soft,  moist,  yet  somewhat  chilly  air.  It  offers  a 
wonderful  contrast  to  Marseilles. 

After  several  generations  in  an  altered  climate, 
after  forming  new  habits,  which  become  hereditary, 
a  visible  change  passes  over  the  whole  constitution 
and  working  of  the  human  machine.  On  the  sea- 
coast  of  Provence  there  is  no  escaping  from  the 
hot  sun  which  roasts  you  like  a  fire ;  the  heavy  chok- 
ing heat,  full  of  electricity,  which  oppresses  the 
lungs ;  the  strong  mistral,  the  keen  southern  wind, 
which  irritates  the  nerves,  dries  up  the  skin,  and 
hurts  the  eyes  ;  the  bare,  dry  rock,  the  blue  ocean - 
mirror,  beautiful  as  a  violet ;  the  clear  horizons, 
lilac-hued  or  glowing  white.  By  constant  habit  a 
man  accommodates  himself  to  his  surroundings,  and 
his  muscles  are  braced ;  he  displays  more  power 
of  resistance,  and  is  tempered  to  bear  extremes ; 
he  grows  accustomed  to  sharper  contrasts.  At  the 
same  time  he  is  more  excitable,  his  force  of  expan- 

280 


LYONS  28l 

sion  is  more  prompt  and  vehement,  his  accent  is 
sharper  and  more  sonorous,  more  akin  to  the  note 
of  a  horn  or  a  hautboy.  And  thus  he  comes  to  depend 
more  on  what  is  outside  of  him  ;  he  is  less  self- 
centred,  more  drawn  to  externals,  to  form,  sound, 
extravagance,  outward  show,  strong  sensuous  in- 
dulgence. But  set  the  same  man  in  a  moist  temperate 
peaceful  atmosphere,  and  you  will  attenuate  him, 
tone  him  down,  and  rob  him  of  his  keen  perceptions. 

All  variations  of  climate,  soil,  and  surroundings 
have  their  counterpart  in  the  moral  domain.  There 
are  two  reasons  which  account  for  this  fact,  of  which 
the  first  is  to  be  found  in  the  Darwinian  law  of 
selection.  Individuals  survive  the  longest,  flourish, 
and  reproduce  themselves,  when  they  are  best  fitted 
for  the  land  they  live  in.  A  Fleming  in  Morocco 
will  be  more  depressed,  less  likely  to  find  a  suitable 
mate,  and  more  apt  to  die,  than  a  Moor.  The 
second  reason  is  the  familiar  law  of  adaptation  to 
circumstances,  which  seems  to  be  virtually  at  one 
with  that  of  Darwin.  A  man  gradually  and  of 
necessity  selects  such  gestures,  attitudes,  ideas,  and 
actions,  habits,  instincts,  and  aptitudes  as  are  most 
in  accord  with  his  surroundings,  the  rest  being  little 
by  little  effaced  by  weariness  and  pain — that  is,  by 
incompatibility. 

Physiologists  tell  us  that  the  stomach,  the  lungs, 


282  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

the  skin,  every  organ  and  every  molecule,  is  associ- 
ated with  all  the  rest.  Therefore  each  organ  varies 
in  condition  as  the  body  varies  in  its  action,  so 
that  by  the  law  of  persistency  of  type,  the  tendency 
to  continue  the  condition  which  is  most  frequent, 
there  is  a  tendency  to  reproduce  the  physiological 
condition  most  harmonious  with  a  particular  system 
of  actions — which  explains  the  accommodation  of 
mood  in  the  individual. 


CROSSING  THE  JURA. 

ANOTHER  soil,  another  sky,  another  world !  The 
roofs  grow  steeper,  and  fall  halfway  across  the 
wings,  in  order  to  protect  the  walls  against  the 
oblique  rains.  The  whole  house  bristles  with  its 
armour  of  dark  red  tiles,  fit  colour  for  an  armed 
man.  All  around  is  green — plains  and  hillsides, 
winding  roads,  the  very  crests  of  the  mountains, 
with  a  dull  soaked  green,  eternally  drenched  by 
the  rolling  mists.  It  is  impossible  to  describe  the 
force  of  the  contrast  for  one  who  has  just  left  the 
white  bare  mountains  of  the  South.  They  have  not 
a  hue  in  common.  The  green  of  the  meadows 
becomes  delicate  and  soft,  from  the  pale  yellow  of 
the  early  growths  of  spring  to  a  delightful  but 
transitory  brilliance,  like  the  blossom  of  a  flower. 
All  the  earth  tints  are  strong,  the  houses  white  and 
red,  the  roofs  blackened,  the  fir  plantations  dark. 
Yet  the  sky,  heavy  with  rain-clouds,  is  brown  or 
muddy  -  yellow.  The  fogs  hang  in  the  distance 
like  soaked  tiles,  the  near  ones  float  in  the  evening 

283 


284  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

like  motionless  gauze.  The  constantly -watered  grass 
looks  as  if  it  would  never  wither.  Here  and  there 
is  a  sleepy  river,  with  long  bright  sheets  of  water, 
quiet  and  almost  black,  like  the  surface  of  a  marsh, 
which  reflects  the  sky  as  in  a  mirror.  Even  the  face 
and  form  of  humanity  has  changed ;  the  people 
are  taller,  less  lively,  less  cheerful  and  familiar.  The 
universal  greenness  and  moisture,  the  firs  and  the 
mountains,  breed  a  sadder  and  more  serious  idea 
of  life.  One  shudders  slightly  at  the  thought  of 
winter,  prepares  oneself  against  it,  and  adds  to  the 
comforts  of  one's  house. 


STRASBOURG. 

THE  interior  of  the  Cathedral  is  the  finest  example 
of  Gothic  which  I  have  seen. 

As  you  enter,  it  is  like  night.  There  is  not  a 
single  transparent  window ;  all  are  coloured  and 
dark.  And  there  are  windows  everywhere — on  your 
right  and  on  your  left,  and  in  both  the  high  galleries. 
A  strange  light,  a  sort  of  purple  shadow,  pervades 
the  vast  nave.  There  are  no  seats  here ;  only  five 
or  six  kneeling  worshippers,  or  silent  wandering 
shades.  We  are  rid  for  a  time  of  our  paltry  little 
houses,  of  the  paltry  insect-life  of  humanity.  The 
broad  space  between  the  pillars  is  bare  to  the  vaulted 
roof,  occupied  only  by  dubious  lights  and  a  vast, 
almost  palpable  shade. 

In  front  of  us  the  choir  is  exceptionally  dark ; 
one  window  stands  out  brightly  from  the  centre 
of  the  apse,  filled  with  shining  figures,  like  a  vista 
of  Paradise.  The  choir,  nevertheless,  is  crowded 
with  priests ;  but  the  darkness  is  so  deep,  and  the 
distance  so  great,  that  there  is  nothing  to  be  seen. 
There  are  no  visible  decorations  or  little  objects  of 

285 


286  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

worship  ;  only  two  chandeliers  sparkle  in  the  gloom 
with  lighted  tapers,  like  tremulous  souls,  at  the  two 
corners  of  the  altar,  amidst  the  grand  carvings 
which  one  is  merely  permitted  to  imagine.  The 
antiphons  rise  and  fall  at  regular  intervals,  like  a 
swinging  censer ;  sometimes  the  clear  far-off  voices  of 
the  choir  make  one  think  that  one  hears  the  singing 
of  cherubim  ;  now  and  again  the  organ  swells  out 
above  every  other  sound  with  majestic  harmony. 

I  went  up  to  the  entrance  of  the  choir,  and  from 
thence  the  oriental  rose-window,  more  severe  and 
noble  than  in  any  other  cathedral,  shone  forth  above 
the  vast  obscurity  of  the  nearer  arches,  in  its  framing 
of  blue  and  black.  The  colossal  pillars  came  into 
view  ;  the  deep  shadows  and  the  splendid  contrast 
of  the  dim  light  were  like  an  image  of  the  Christian 
life  immersed  in  this  gloomy  world,  with  its  rare 
outlets  into  the  next.  On  both  sides,  as  far  as  the 
eye  could  penetrate  into  the  dome,  the  whole  sacred 
narrative  was  blazoned  on  the  glass  in  violet  and 
red,  like  a  revelation  vouchsafed  to  poor  humanity. 

How  well  the  men  of  old  understood  the  effect 
of  light  and  shade !  This  Cathedral  speaks  to  the 
eyes  at  once,  and  in  its  entirety.  What  place  has 
argument  here?  The  symbol  conveys  everything, 
and  makes  everything  understood.  Words  cannot 
paint  this  vast  avenue  of  stone,  with  its  solemn  pillars 


STRASBOURG  287 

in  regular  courses,  never  weary  under  the  burden 
of  that  sublime  vault.  It  is  a  world,  an  abstract  of 
the  great  world — to  grope  from  place  to  place,  to 
feel  your  way  against  the  chilly  walls,  in  a  life  of 
gloom,  amidst  the  doubtful  tremulous  light,  the 
feeble  muttering  and  whispering  of  the  human 
swarm,  and  for  consolation  to  catch  a  hagioscope 
of  radiant  figures  far  above  you,  a  canopy  of  azure, 
the  divine  eyes  of  a  Virgin  and  Child,  of  a  Christ 
with  His  hands  outstretched  in  benediction,  whilst 
grand  psalms,  high  notes  well  sustained,  a  concert 
of  jubilant  acclamation,  lift  the  soul  to  Heaven 
upon  their  undulations  of  harmony. 

Amongst  other  fine  details  is  the  ancient  arching 
of  the  vaults  in  the  crypt  and  choir.  This  is  a  solid 
effect,  and  in  fact  Roman  ;  it  is  the  nucleus  and  centre 
around  which  the  Gothic  has  blossomed  luxuriantly. 

In  a  chapel  on  the  northern  side,  almost  dark 
and  rarely  used,  is  a  large  recumbent  stone  figure 
of  Bishop  Conrad  of  Lichtemberg,  the  founder,  who 
died  in  1299.  He  lies  on  his  tomb,  with  a  book  in  his 
hand.  He  looks  like  a  Pharaoh,  who  has  slept  from  all 
eternity.  The  pulpit,  which  is  not  large,  dates  from 
1486,  and  is  a  marvel  of  delicacy,  with  foliage,  heads, 
interlacing  designs,  and  nearly  fifty  statues.  The 
Gothic  in  its  final  phase  develops  into  a  gem. 


288  JOURNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

I  returned  again  and  again  to  the  choir  and  apse, 
to  their  round  columns,  their  grand  massive  circle, 
strong  and  sombre,  to  the  ancient  Roman  Christ- 
ianity, the  planted  shoot  which  has  become  great 
and  indestructible,  and  around  which  all  the  rest 
has  broken  into  bloom. 

I  do  not  altogether  care  for  the  church  outside. 
The  towers  are  massive,  and,  in  order  to  lighten 
them,  they  have  been  decked  with  a  cloak,  a  net- 
work of  decoration,  a  filigree  of  statues  and  fine 
mouldings.  There  is  only  one  clock-tower,  so  that 
the  edifice  appears  to  have  lost  a  limb  ;  no  one 
seems  to  have  thought  that  it  needed  a  corresponding 
tower  on  the  other  side.  The  one  which  is  here 
already  is  a  rich  efflorescence,  quite  artificial  in  style ; 
the  stonework  has  been  laid  on  to  an  iron  frame. 
It  aptly  illustrates  the  character  of  this  exaggerated 
art,  which  had  not  the  common  sense  to  insist  on 
order  and  symmetry,  such  as  might  develop  into 
bloom  later  on.  Many  Gothic  Cathedrals  have  their 
towers  quite  detached,  at  a  distance  of  fifty  paces. 
This  particular  civilisation  is  all  on  the  same  plan 
— a  grand,  vehement,  sometimes  delicate  fancy,  but 
still  the  fancy  of  a  sick  man. 

The  statues  are  admirable.  Here,  no  doubt,  is 
an  art  like  that  which,  almost  at  the  same  time, 
produced  a  Van  Eyck  in  Flanders.  Erwin  of  Hein- 


STRASBOURG  289 

bach  died  in  1318;  the  northern  tower  was  finished 
in  1365  ;  the  spire  was  completed  in  1439. 

I  was  charmed  to  find  a  dawn  of  art  in  these  statues. 
These  men  had  left  behind  them  the  monastic 
feebleness  of  the  Middle  Age,  the  hieratic  childishness 
of  the  sculptures  of  Chartres,  which  made  the  heads 
stupid,  and  a  quarter  of  the  length  of  the  body. 
They  had  a  notion  of  proportion,  they  were  masters 
of  their  craft,  and  for  the  first  time  they  present 
us  with  a  man.  They  catch  at  once,  with  energy, 
with  the  freshness  and  delight  of  inventors,  the 
full  expression  of  an  attitude,  the  hang  of  a  cloak, 
a  typical  head,  a  movement  of  the  body,  How  for- 
tunate that  they  did  not  copy,  but  invented  !  There 
is  not  one  adopted  type ;  they  had  actualities  before 
their  eyes,  and  drew  thence  every  variety  of  the 
human  face  and  attitude. 

Look  at  the  strange  mischievous  smile,  full  of 
covetous  menace,  on  the  face  of  one  of  the  Foolish 
Virgins ;  at  the  goodness,  perhaps  a  little  heavy 
and  constitutional,  in  the  square  head  of  a  Wise 
Virgin.  Some  of  these  artists  were  really  of  the 
first  rank,  though  full  of  realism.  They  found  an 
ideal,  not  the  only  ideal,  nor  yet  after  the  antique 
model,  but  in  accord  with  the  fresh  delight  of  their 
eyes  and  of  their  heart. 

In  the  middle  porch  is  an  Eve,  undraped.  She  is 
T 


290  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

a  German  woman,  somewhat  fleshy,  just  a  trifle  sulky, 
too  closely  copied  for  our  taste  from  the  actual  nude, 
but  full-blooded,  and  sure  to  produce  fine  children. 
The  Apostles  are  austere,  lean,  with  long  faces, 
pensive  and  energetic,  dressed  with  dignity,  abound- 
ing in  force ;  and  their  attitude  is  as  though  taken 
from  the  life. 

On  the  middle  front  are  two  female  statues,  the 
Church  and  the  Synagogue,  which  are  attributed  to 
Sabina,  the  daughter  of  Erwin.  They  are  very  fine 
and  bear  testimony  to  a  complete  as  well  as  a  new 
art.  The  heads  are  noble  and  full  of  thought,  with 
long  and  beautiful  hair  falling  somewhat  thickly ;  the 
figures  are  slim  and  supple,  well  set  off  by  the 
delicately  folded  robes.  It  may  be  that  a  whole 
life  of  thought  and  meditation  was  devoted  to  the 
conception  of  these  types.  This  is  the  happiness  of 
the  artist ;  when  he  works,  and  is  endowed  with 
genius,  he  comes  at  last  to  see  his  heart's  innermost 
ideal  revealed  to  him  alone,  taking  form  before  him, 
and  to  bestow  upon  it  an  actual  embodiment.  What 
bliss,  at  such  a  moment,  to  discover  that  a  supple 
figure,  a  delicate  head  surmounted  by  its  flowing  hair, 
reveals  a  pure  and  lofty  soul ! 

On  the  northern  front  is  a  porch,  erected  in  1494, 
most  richly  carved,  with  festoons  of  briar,  waving 
branches,  twining  knots  —  another  gem  of  the 


STRASBOURG  29 1 

decadence.  But  the  eight  carved  figures,  including  an 
armed  knight,  a  courtier,  and,  finest  of  all,  a  crowned 
Virgin  (German  again),  with  a  diadem  of  magnificent 
locks,  wrapped  in  contemplation,  and  bearing  her 
child  in  her  arms,  display  once  more  the  birth  of  a 
new  and  grand  art. 

Sculpture  succeeds  architecture,  and  man  succeeds 
the  Deity,  as  the  State  replaces  the  Church,  and  the 
modern  age  follows  upon  the  mediaeval. 

What  a  keen,  a  chaste,  a  bold  perception  of  the  in- 
dividual, the  distinct  type!  The  courtier  with  his  high 
cheek-bones,  slender  legs,  stern  and  prominent  eyes ; 
the  old  and  simple  knight,  weary  after  long  endurance, 
and  heroic  to  the  last,  are  speaking  portraitures. 

I  had  some  conversation  with  Mile.  Jeanne  C , 

who  is  at  a  convent  school  in  Strasbourg,  a  branch  of 
the  Oiseaux.  She  is  thirteen,  a  flower  in  the  bud, 
slender  and  tall.  And  she  looked  like  a  bird,  as  she 
sat  at  table  in  the  evening,  silent,  with  downcast  eyes, 
elegant  and  slim  in  her  pretty  dress.  It  was  the 
strange  charm  of  maidenhood,  of  the  unsophisticated 
soul,  the  mind  too  timid  to  reveal  itself,  with  all  the 
world  before  it.  Next  morning,  after  a  five  hours' 
ride,  she  unbent,  and  prattled.  She  was  a  girl  and 
a  boy  in  one.  You  have  there  the  inception  and  the 
collapse  of  illusion. 


292  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

Her  school  is  such  a  good  one  that  she  is  rejoicing 
over  the  completion  of  her  holidays.  The  sisters  are 
all  like  mothers ;  they  are  addressed  as  "  Ma  mere," 
and  the  Superior  as  "  Maman."  They  punish  very 
little,  and  then  it  is  a  grief  to  all  of  them.  The  worst 
infliction  is  to  be  deprived  of  their  belt,  for  every 
class  has  its  belt — red,  yellow,  blue,  or  white.  Once 
there  was  a  terrible  punishment.  The  offence  was 
so  serious  that  nobody  ever  knew  what  it  was.  The 
guilty  one  had  to  wear  an  old  dress  and  cap  all  the 
day  long,  both  in  class  and  at  meals.  They  are 
never  locked  up  or  deprived  of  dainties;  and  the 
food  is  very  good. 

They  play  with  the  utmost  spirit  and  enthusiasm, 
tossing  the  ball  or  racing,  and  they  shout  like 
children  and  madcaps.  A  great  point  is  made  of 
it,  and  those  who  will  not  play  have  bad  marks. 

Each  girl  has  her  favourite  sister,  who  is  her 
intimate  friend.  She  tells  her  everything,  kisses  her, 
and  conceals  nothing  from  her  adopted  mother.  The 
sisters,  having  no  other  object  in  life,  no  ambition,  no 
desire  to  be  in  better  circumstances,  no  vanity,  no 
prospect  of  marriage  and  children,  throw  their  whole 
heart  into  this  life.  The  girls  come  and  see  them  in 
after  years,  for  they  are  friends  never  to  be  forgotten. 

They  pay  six  hundred  francs  a  year.  There  are 
fifty  boarders,  with  thirty-two  lay-sisters,  and  others  ; 


STRASBOURG  293 

and  there  is  room  for  two  hundred  and  fifty.  The 
establishment  was  re-founded  two  years  ago  by  ladies 
who  came  from  the  Oiseaux ;  and  the  numbers  are 
steadily  increasing. 

It  is  clear  that  the  secular  establishments  cannot 
stand  against  a  competition  of  this  kind.  The  only 
objections  to  convent  schools  are  that  the  life  is 
made  too  pleasant ;  the  children  are  spoiled  both 
for  ordinary  existence  and  for  marriage ;  the  teach- 
ing is  too  poor,  for  the  pupils  have  no  stimulus  and 
no  constraint,  merely  taking  up  what  they  please. 
It  is  the  same  with  the  religious  establishments  for 
boys ;  when  it  rains  on  Sunday  they  have  a  half- 
holiday  on  the  first  fine  day.  Again,  if  a  girl  is  rich 
and  imaginative,  she  is  often  lured  into  taking  the 
veil.  I  have  heard  of  several  instances. 

It  is  a  special  characteristic  of  the  Church  in 
France  that  it  is  a  temporal  institution  and  a 
machinery  of  government.  The  religious  sentiment 
properly  so  called,  the  moral,  mystic,  artistic  feeling, 
such  as  one  sees  in  Germany,  in  Italy,  and  in  Eng- 
land, is  almost  non-existent,  and  at  best  spasmodic 
or  rudimentary.  The  main  thing  is  the  feeling  of 
docility,  the  necessity  of  conforming  to  certain  rules 
and  acquiring  certain  habits,  an  acquiescence  of  the 
reason  in  the  working  of  a  beautiful  machinery  and 


294  JOURNEYS   THROUGH  FRANCE 

a  regular  organisation,  with  unity  in  the  sense  that 
Bossuet  enjoined.  In  short,  the  Church  is  a  power- 
ful, well-disciplined  body,  which  finds  places  for  its 
members,  and  which  exacts  obedience  from  them. 

At  a  tavern  in  the  Vosges  I  was  reading  a  report 
of  Monseigneur  de  Segur  on  the  progress  of  a  certain 
association.  The  priests  make  a  point  of  having  had 
so  many  communicants  at  Easter,  on  such  and  such 
a  day.  The  assistants  all  send  up  reports  and  figures, 
and  they  are  promoted  according  to  the  number  of 
their  conquests.  The  prevailing  spirit  is  that  of 
acquisition  and  domination. 

Are  we  still  Gauls,  with  Druids  not  to  be  ex- 
tirpated, with  a  nineteenth-century  Vercingetorix, 
and  our  administrative  hierarchy  imported  by  Rome  ? 

Our  most  conspicuous  defect  in  any  kind  of  action 
is  the  want  of  leaders  and  guides.  Most  of  the 
people  I  come  across  make  a  poor  show,  or  do 
nothing  at  all,  for  want  of  guidance ;  a  very  small 
minority,  say  one  in  a  thousand,  have  general 
and  independent  ideas.  Professors,  retired  officials, 
archaeologists,  and  men  in  the  army,  whom  I  visit 
on  my  yearly  rounds,  are  wont  to  lounge  about,  pass 
their  time  at  the  cafe,  sleep  in  their  armchairs,  or 
collect  curiosities.  They  have  no  aim  or  object. 

To-day  I  drove  to  Sainte  Odile. 

It  is  a  convent,  showing  the  remains  of  a  Roman 


STRASBOURG  295 

crypt,   and   was  founded   in   the  eighth   century  on 
the  side  of  a  mountain. 

The  day  was  magnificent.  We  drove  for  three 
hours  through  a  forest  of  pines  and  fir-trees.  For 
the  first  half-hour  the  effect  was  admirable.  The 
trees  are  tall  and  strong,  and  in  vigorous  growth. 
I  am  never  weary  of  looking  at  these  straight, 
superbly-soaring,  splendidly-shaped  trunks,  like  a 
phalanx  of  young  heroic  savages.  The  firs,  with 
their  smooth  bark,  variegated  by  light-coloured  moss, 
are  more  beautiful  than  the  pines ;  their  branches 
are  of  a  fresher  and  more  vivid  green.  They  are 
massed  together  in  groups,  and  their  silvery  bark 
cuts  clear  into  the  azure  sky.  You  will  see  two 
or  three  on  a  slope,  standing  alone,  motionless,  like 
an  advanced  post  on  an  enemy's  frontier,  in  all  the 
pride  and  beauty  of  youth.  Others  descend  into 
the  valley,  like  an  army  on  the  march.  Their 
dense  rings  of  foliage  blot  out  the  sun  ;  only  through 
the  colonnades  of  the  trunks  can  you  get  sight  of 
it,  dimmed  and  transfigured  as  you  may  see  it 
through  the  blazoned  panes  of  a  cathedral.  Else- 
where, in  a  clearing,  it  pours  down  upon  you  with 
startling  suddenness,  with  magnificent  splendour, 
and  streams  in  a  sheet  of  light  over  the  moss,  over 
the  shining  screen  of  lichens,  over  the  long  droop- 
ing branches.  And  down  beneath  this  flood  of 


2Q6  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  FRANCE 

sunshine  you  can  discern  in  the  silent  shadow  the 
slender  forms  of  myriads  of  young  fir-trees,  delicately 
soaring  up  like  the  pillars  in  a  Gothic  fane. 

But  the  most  admirable  sight  of  all  is  that  of 
the  setting  sun,  from  the  summit  of  Sainte  Odile. 
Every  hill  is  wooded  to  the  top.  There  is  a  never- 
ending  succession  of  trees,  as  far  as  the  eye  can 
reach,  swarming  up  into  the  sky,  a  dark  border 
instinct  with  life.  Yet  here  and  there  a  patch  of 
meadow,  as  large  as  your  hand,  sparkles  with  a 
brighter  green.  Nothing  but  trees  in  endless  pro- 
cession, in  incredible  numbers,  an  infinite  array, 
swarming  wherever  you  may  look,  undisturbed  in 
their  ancient  and  peaceful  domain.  They  gather 
in  squadrons  upon  the  rounded  crests,  descend  the 
slopes,  concentrate  in  the  valleys,  and  climb  again 
to  the  sharper  summits  of  the  central  mountain. 
The  whole  vast  army  advances  in  mighty  waves 
from  crest  to  crest,  like  some  barbarian  host, 
shrouded  in  gloom  and  not  to  be  numbered. 

Above  them,  a  sky  of  inimitable  blue  rings  them 
round,  with  wondrous  joy  and  serenity.  The  sun 
sheds  his  golden  light  on  the  battalions  in  the  van, 
whilst  the  rear  is  enfolded  in  a  luminous  mist ;  and 
away  to  the  east  a  fair  wide  plain,  clearly  distinguished 
by  its  softer  hues,  presents  a  rich  booty  of  cultivated 
fields  to  that  wild  invading  host  of  trees. 

THE  END, 


THIS  BOOK  IS  IV 
ST' 


14  DAY  USE 

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